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'•'*»••          «..'.•      ' 

/          .' 


I  See  page  22 
SHE    LISTENED,  LEANING   OVER    THE    BALUSTRADE  " 


BARBARY  SHEEP 


BY 

ROBERT  HICHENS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  CALL  OF  THE  BLOOD" 
"  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH  " 

ETC.     ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

MCMVII 


Copyright,  1907,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  August,  1907. 


BARBARY    SHEEP 


2082712 


BARBARY    SHEEP 


i 


SIR  CLAUDE  WYVERNE  was  a 
simple  and  rather  heavy  young 
Englishman,  who  had  married  a  very 
frivolous  wife,  and  who  adored  her. 
Adoration  leads  to  abnegation,  and 
Sir  Claude,  as  soon  as  he  was  a  mar- 

\ried  man,  began  to  give  way  to  Lady 
Wyverne.     She   was   a   very   pretty 
and  changeable  blonde.     Any  perma- 
nence seemed  to  her  dull;   and  this 
^     trait  secretly  agitated  her  husband, 
^-.who  desired  to  be  permanent  in  her 
life  and  not  to  be  thought  dull  by 
her.     In  order  to  achieve  this  result, 
==Jie  decided  to  present  himself  as  often 


as  possible  to  Lady  Wyverne  in  the 
seductive  guise  of  change-giver.  He 
was  perpetually  occupied  in  devising 
novelties  to  keep  up  her  butterfly 
spirits  and  in  anticipating  her  every 
whim. 

One  spring,  just  as  Sir  Claude 
thought  they  were  going  at  last  to 
settle  down  in  a  pretty  country  place 
they  had  in  Leicestershire,  Lady 
Wyverne  expressed  a  sudden  wish  to 
"run  over"  to  Algiers. 

"Caroline  Barchester  and  her  bear 
[have  gone  there,  Crumpet,"  she  said. 
'Let's  go,  too.  I'll  get  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  ex-Queen  of  Madagascar 
[and  the  Prince  of  Annam — they're 
|  in  exile  there,  you  know — and  we'll 
,have  some  fun  and  see  something 
;new.  I'm  tired  of  ordinary  people, 
i  Let's  start  on  Tuesday.  We'll  stay 
in  Paris  en  route." 

Of  course  Sir  Claude  assented. 
They  started  for  Algiers  on  the 


Tuesday,  and  they  stayed  in  Paris 
en  route. 

While  they  were  in  Paris  they  went, 
against  Sir  Claude's  will,  to  visit  a 
famous  astrologer  called  Dr.  Melie 
Etoile,  about  whom  everybody — 
Lady  Wyverne's  everybody  —  hap- 
pened to  be  raving  at  that  moment. 
Lady  Wyverne went  into  this  worthy's 
presence  first,  leaving  her  husband — 
looking  unusually  English  even  for 
him — seated  in  the  waiting-room,  a 
small  chamber  all  cane  chairs,  arti- 
ficial flowers,  and  signs  of  the  zo- 
diac, heated  by  steam,  and  carefully 
shrouded,  at  the  tiny  windows,  by 
bead  blinds. 

After  perhaps  half  an  hour  Lady 
Wyverne  came  out  in  a  state  of 
violent  excitement. 

"He's  extraordinary!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "He's  a  genius!  A  little 
bearded  thing  like  a  mouse,  who— 
Go  in,  Crumpet!" 


But  Sir  Claude  protested.  He  had 
only  come  to  bring  his  wife.  He  him- 
self was  an  absolute  sceptic  in  matters 
occult,  and  indeed  thought  almost 
everything  at  all  out  of  the  way 
"damned  silly."  The  idea  of  sub- 
mitting himself  to  an  astrologer  call- 
ed "Melie"  roused  all  his  British  an- 
tagonism. But  Lady  Wyverne  was 
firm.  Indeed,  her  caprices  generally 
had  a  good  deal  of  cast-iron  in  them. 
In  rather  less  than  three  minutes, 
therefore,  Sir  Claude  was  sitting  at 
a  tiny  table  opposite  to  a  small  old 
man  with  a  white  beard  and  pink 
eyes,  and  answering  questions  about 
the  hour  of  night  when  he  was  born, 
the  date  of  the  year,  his  illnesses,  and 
various  other  small  matters  till  then 
regarded  by  him  as  strictly  private. 
Eventually  he  came  out,  holding  a 
folded  paper  in  his  hand,  and  looking 
fa  good  deal  like  a  well-bred  poker. 
"Silly  rot!"  he  muttered,  as  he  en- 


tered  the  outer  room  where  his  wife 
was  awaiting  him  among  the  signs 
of  the  zodiac  and  the  waxen  peo- 
nies. 

"What's  silly  rot?"  cried  Lady 
Wyverne. 

"What  that  chap  says." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"Oh,  a  lot  of  rot.  I  s'pose  he 
thought  I  couldn't  understand  him, 
or  he  wanted  an  extra  guinea.  Any- 
how he's  written  it  all  down  here." 

He  held  out  the  paper,  which  his 
wife  eagerly  seized.  After  glancing 
lover  the  red  and  purple  writing  on  it, 
she  exclaimed: 

!!      "Mars!     That's  this  month.    This 
is  March  the  first." 

"I  know.     Rot,  isn't  it?" 

"Mars,"  continued  Lady  Wyverne, 
reading  aloud,  "periode  de  luttes,  de 
contestations,  d'anxiete,  et  meme  de 
r  peines  de  coeur.     Eviter  de  partir  en 
voyage  la  nuit.     Danger  d'une — " 
s 


She  stopped.  Her  childish,  oval 
face  was  unusually  grave. 

"Rot,  isn't  it?"  said  Sir  Claude, 
gazing  at  his  wife  with  anxiety  in  his 
eyes. 


II 


THE  ex-Queen  of  Madagascar  was 
very  gracious  in  her  villa  on 
the  hill  above  Algiers.  The  Prince 
of  Annam  showed  Sir  Claude  his 
horses,  at  which  Sir  Claude  scarcely 
looked,  as  he  was  thoroughly  pre- 
occupied by  the  little  bag  in  which 
his  agreeable  host  confined  his  lux- 
uriant crop  of  black  hair.  Caroline 
Barchester  and  her  bear,  who  was 
also  her  husband,  had  plenty  of  gos- 
sip to  tell  the  Wyvernes  in  the  pret-/ 
ty  garden  of  the  Hotel  St.  Georges' 
at  Mustapha.  Yet  by  March  ioth/  £. 
Lady  Wyverne  had  had  enough 
Algiers. 

"Let's  get  on,  Crumpet,"  she  said. 


to  her  husband.     "We've  seen  the' 
-3  Queen   and   the   Moorish  Bath  —  c 
^  least  you've  seen  it — and  the  Gov-j 
'-*  ernor's  Palace  and  Cap  Matifou  and* 
all  the  rest  of  it.     So  let's  get  on  tow- 
ards the  desert." 

Sir  Claude  looked  unusually  grim 
and  mulish. 

"I  didn't  know  we  were  going  to 
the  desert,"  he  said. 

"Why,  of  course.  What  did  we 
come  for?" 

"To  see  Algiers,  I  thought." 

"  Nonsense !  Algiers  is  as  French  as 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  I  want  to  know 
all  about  camels  and  sand-dunes  and 
Ouled  —  what  are  they?  Get  two 
berths  in  the  sleeping-car  for  El- 
Akbara;  there's  a  dear.  It's  at  the 
gate  of  the  desert,  you  know.  We'll 
stay  the  night  and  then  trot  on  to 
Beni-Mora." 

Then,  as  he  still  looked  mulish,  she 
added,  mischievously: 


"  Or  I  shall  thinkyou're  silly  enough 
to  believe  in  Melie  Etoile's  prophecy." 
"Rot!"  said  Sir  Claude.     "A  fel- 
low like  a  white— 

"Very  well,  then,  get  the  tickets!" 
He  went  at  once  to  Cook's  and 
got  the  tickets,  but  he  looked  very 
grave,  almost  distressed,  as  he  re- 
turned to  the  hotel.  And  all  that 
evening  he  scarcely  took  his  eyes 
from  his  wife's  pretty,  rather  doll- 
like,  face. 

"I   believe   you  do   believe!"   she 

said  to  him,  as  they  were  going  up  to 

bed.     "'Danger  d'une  grande  perte' 

W        —that  was  what  he  wrote — 'la  plus 

\     grande  perte  possible.'     What  would 

fR  be  the  greatest  loss  possible  to  you?" 

^     "You  ought  to  know,"  he  replied, 

gs=     almost  harshly. 

^-,      And  he  caught  her  little  hand  and 
wrung  it. 

"Oh,    Crumpet,    my    rings!"    she 
cried. 


But  she  left  her  hand  in  his,  and 
added,  on  the  landing: 

"As  if  you  could  lose  me  out  here! 
Crumpet,  you're  more  foolish  than  I 
am,  and  I'm  one  mass  of  superstition, 
even  about  going  under  ladders." 

"Then  do  you  believe  that  pink- 
eyed  astrologer  chap?" 

"Of  course  not.  Bed,  bed,  beau- 
tiful bed!" 

In  the  evening  of  the  next  day  they 
arrived  at  El-Akbara,  but  not  with- 
,out  a  little  adventure  on  the  way. 
Near  a  station  called  Kreir  the  train 
ran  off  the  line,  and  Lady  Wyverne, 
though  not  hurt,  was  a  good  deal 
i shaken  and  very  much  frightened. 
i  When,  after  a  long  delay,  they  started 
.again,  both  she  and  her  husband  sat 
:  opposite  to  each  other  in  a  moody  si- 
;  lence.  Sir  Claude  seemed  specially  op- 
pressed, and  smoked  cigar  after  cigar 
with  almost  feverish  rapidity.  Only 
when  they  had  left  the  train  and  were 


being  driven  to  the  little  inn,  where 
they  were  to  spend  the  night,  did  they 
both  brighten  and  begin  to  return  to 
their  normal  spirits. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  little  place, 
Crumpet!"  said  Lady  Wyverne,  peer- 
ing through  her  veil  at  the  towering 
rocks  which  formed  a  terrific  wall, 
dividing  the  desert  from  the  Tell. 
"But  where 's  the  Sahara?" 

"I  dunno,  Kitty,"  returned  Sir 
Claude.  "Wonder  if  there's  any 
shoo  tin'  in  those  mountains." 

"Why,  it's  getting  quite  cold!" 
cried  Lady  Wyverne,  as  the  carriage 
rattled  into  a  narrow  gorge  of  the  rocks 
full  of  shadows  and  of  the  sound  of 
rushing  waters.  "One  would  never 
suppose  that  the  desert —  Here's  the 
hotel!" 

The  carriage  had  stopped  before  a 
solitary   house   which    stood   in   the  \ 
heart  of  the  gorge  on  the  edge  of  a  ^ 
turmoil  of  absinthe  -  colored   water. 


Stupendous  battlements  of  rock  rear- 
ed themselves  up  round  about  it 
towards  the  clear  blue  sky.  In  front 
of  it  grew  a  line  of  Judas-trees  along 
the  white  road,  which  is  the  caravan 
route  from  the  Tell  to  the  Sahara. 
It  was  small,  low,  but  clean  and  in- 
viting-looking, with  a  wide  veranda 
and  French  windows  with  green  shut- 
ters. 

"Tea  on  the  veranda!"  cried  Lady 
Wyverne.  "Tea — tea — and  then — 
where's  the  desert?" 

The  landlady,  a  plump  and  pleas- 
ant Frenchwoman  of  middle-age  and 
motherly  appearance,  explained  that 
it  lay  immediately  beyond  the  wall 
of  rock.  Five  minutes'  walk  through 
the  gorge  and  "  Madame "  would  be 
there.  Lady  Wyverne  was  all  ex- 
citement. She  quite  forgot  her  shak- 
!(ing  and  fright,  and  as  soon  as  she 
Ifhad  swallowed  a  cup  of  tea  she  made 
her  husband  accompany  her  down 


the  road  towards  the  natural  portal 
which  the  Arabs  call  "The  Gate  of 
the  Sahara."  He  had  been  below, 
conferring  with  a  tall  Arab  guide, 
who  now  walked  beside  them  need- 
lessly to  show  the  way,  and  he  said 
to  his  wife,  with  considerable  anima- 
tion: 

"I  say,  Kitty,  what  d'  you  think? 
This  chap  says  there's  splendid  sport 
here,  any  amount  of  Barbary  sheep 
up  in  those  rocks,  and  herds  of  gazelle 
in  the  plain  just  beyond.  D'  you 
think  you'd  mind  spendin'  a  couple 
o'  nights  here  instead  of  one?  I 
could  get  up  to-morrow  at  three 
o'clock  and  be  off  to  get  a  shot  at 
somethin'.  What  d'  you  think?" 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute,  Crumpet, 
when  I've—  Oh!" 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  and  stood 
still,  clutching  her  husband's  arm. 
They  had  come  out  into  the  desert 
13 


and  were  facing  the  sunset.  Abrupt 
ly  the  world  had  changed.  A  glory 
of  color  dazzled  their  eyes.  The  riv- 
er, now  flowing  quietly,  wound  away 
into  the  bosom  of  an  oasis  of  magnifi- 
cent palm-trees  that  lay  in  a  meas- 
ureless expanse  of  pale-yellow  earth 
covered  with  scattered  crystals.  To 
the  left  stretched  a  distant  mountain 
range,  dim  purple  beneath  the  rose  of 
the  sunset.  And  from  three  Arab 
villages  of  brown  houses  scattered 
among  the  palms  came  the  cries  of 
children,  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  the 
faint  sounds  of  African  drums  and 
hautboys. 

Under  a  great  rock  by  the  river- 
side sat  an  Arab  boy  piping  a  tune 
that  was  like  caprice  personified  in 
music. 

"Oh,  Crumpet!"  said  Lady  Wy- 
verne,  after  a  little  pause  of  contem- 
plation, "how  strange  it  is  and  how 
—how—" 


She  caught  her  breath.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Camels!  Camels!"  she  cried. 
"Look,  Crumpet!" 

A  caravan  was  winding  out  of  the 
gorge,  a  train  of  laden  camels,  and 
barefooted,  dark -faced  men  in  flut- 
tering, ragged  garments. 

"Doosid  picturesque,"  assented  Sir 
Claude.  "  To  get  a  shot  at  the  sheep 
you  have  to — 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"Well,  but  how  can  you — " 

"  I  tell  you  I  know — I  know.  We'll 
stay  two  nights.  Go  off  to-morrow 
at  three  and  kill  whatever  you  like. 
Only  let  me  stay  and  explore  those 
villages  and  wander  among  those  / 
palms." 

"You  can't  go  alone." 

"I '11  take  a  guide." 

"  I'll  find  out  at  the  hotel  if  there's' 
one  that's  all  right,"  muttered  Sir* 
Claude.  "This  fellow  always  goes|| 

IS 


with  the  sportsmen.     I  say 
I'm  feelin'  awful  hungry." 
~       "You  mundane  thing!"  said  Lady  • 
*.  Wyverne,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

But  she  turned  back  and  they  made 
their  way  to  the  inn,  which  was  now 
shrouded  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
rapidly  approaching  night. 

At  dinner  the  only  other  person 
in  the  room  was  a  very  smart  and 
handsome  young  Arab,  who,  the  wait- 
er told  them,  was  an  officer  in  the 
Spahis,  and  was  stationed  at  Algiers, 
but  who  was  now  on  leave  and  going 
to  the  home  of  his  father,  an  impor- 
tant Caid.  in  the  Zibans  district.  Lady 
Wyverne  looked  at  the  guest  with 
interest.  He  wore  a  snowy  turban 
and  a  red  jacket,  and  between  the 
white  and  red  his  magnificent  black 
eyes  sparkled  impudently,  and  his 
teeth  gleamed  as  he  smiled  at  the 
waiter,  to  whom  he  addressed  a  few 
words  in  excellent  French.  His  face 

16 


was  extraordinarily  expressive,  brill- 
iant, but  cruel  and  startlingly  intel- 
ligent. 

All  through  dinner  Sir  Claude  was 
talking  about  Barbary  sheep,  and 
directly  dinner  was  over  he  said: 

"I  say,  Kitty,  s'pose  we  turn  in." 

"Turn  in!"  said  Lady  Wyverne. 
"Why,  it's  only  eight  o'clockl" 

"I  know,  but  you're  awfully  done 
up,  with  that  accident  and  all,  and — " 

"  You  mean  that  you're  sleepy  and 
that  you've  got  to  be  up  at  three  to 
kill  some  wretched  sheep.  Go  to  bed, 
Crumpet ;  but  I'm  going  to  stay  out  on 
the  veranda  and  look  at  the  moon." 

Sir  Claude  cast  a  drowsy  glance 
towards  the  young  Spahi,  who  had 
,  just  picked  up  a  walnut  out  of  a  fruit- 
jg=_  dish  and  was  holding  it  delicately  in 
""-.  his  slim,  almost  womanish  fingers. 
The  Spahi  looked  demurely  down. 

"Well,  Kitty,  I  think  I  will  turn 
Lin.  You  see,  if  I  don't  get  enough 


sleep,  there's  no  knowin'  to-morrow 
whether— 

"You'll  hit  the  wretched  sheep  or 
pot  your  guide.  I  know.  Trot 
along." 

Sir  Claude  turned  to  trot.  A  sharp 
little  sound  rang  through  the  room. 
He  looked  round.  The  Spahi  had 
cracked  the  nut  with  his  fingers,  and 
was  smiling  gently  as  he  tenderly  ex- 
tracted the  kernel. 

"  I  dunno  that  I  am  ready  for  bed," 
began  Sir  Claude.  "P'r'aps  I'll  have 
a  smoke  first  on— 

"No,  no;  the  bolster  calls  you.  I 
know  by  the  lobster  look  in  your  dear 
old  eyes.  Come  along,  Crumpet!" 

She  vanished  from  the  room  follow- 
ed by  her  husband. 

The  Spahi  looked  after  them,  got 
up,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  strolled  out 
f>  into  the  little  paved  enclosure  above 
fa  which  the  veranda  projected.  He 
^  leaned  his  shoulder  against  a  pillar 


•• 


and  stood  there  motionless,  staring 
towards  the  Judas-trees  and  the  white 
road  that  wound  away  among  the 
shadows  of  the  gorge  towards  the 
desert. 


in 


SIR  CLAUDE  went  to  bed,  of 
course.  He  always  did  what 
his  wife  told  him  to  do.  Lady 
Wyverne  tucked  him  up,  and  then, 
followed  by  the  familiar  sound  of 
his  first  snore,  went  out  onto  the 
veranda  beneath  which  the  young 
Spahi  was  standing.  He  heard  the 
rustle  of  her  gown  above  him  in  the 
still  night,  and  smiled.  Brilliant 
stars  sparkled  in  the  sky,  and  the 
thread  of  road  that  wound  through 
the  gorge  to  the  Sahara  was  lit  up 
by  a  round,  white  moon.  In  the 
tel  the  landlady,  her  family,  and 
the  servants  were  supping  cheer- 
fully.  Nobody  was  about.  After  a 


minute  the  Spahi  moved  away  from 
the  pillar  against  which  he  had  been 
leaning,  to  the  wooden  railing  be- 
neath the  Judas-trees,  which  divided 
the  small,  paved  court-yard  of  the  inn 
from  the  road.  He  turned  and  stood 
with  his  back  against  it,  facing  the 
veranda,  but  he  did  not  look  up. 
Standing  there  motionless,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  wrapped  in  a  profound 
reverie.  Lady  Wyverne  watched 
him  curiously.  His  large,  white  tur- 
ban looked  ghostly  in  the  moonlight, 
she  thought.  Why  did  he  stand 
there  motionless?  Of  what  could  he 
be  thinking?  This  place,  so  unlike 
any  place  she  had  ever  before  seen, 
puzzled  her.  This  motionless  man 
puzzled  her,  too.  The  frivolity  of 
her  spirit  was  led  captive  by  this 
African  solitude  in  the  night,  on  the 
edge  of  a  greater  solitude,  the  vast 
and  unknown  desert  in  which  this 
man  who  stood  like  a  statue  beneath 


had  been  born  and  bred,  to  which 
he  was  now  returning.  A  sensation 
almost  of  awe  crept  over  her,  and  she 
began  to  wonder.  When  a  woman 
begins  to  wonder  there  is  no  limit 
to  her  mental  journeyings.  Lady 
Wyverne  had  travelled  very  far  when 
a  strange  sound  startled  her  and 
arrested  her  attention. 

It  was  a  voice  singing,  or  rather 
murmuring,  an  uncouth  tune,  a  soft, 
whining,  almost  babyish  voice.   From 
i  whom  did  it  come? 

She  could  see  no  one  except  the 
young  Spahi,  and  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  at  first  that  the  voice  could 
proceed  from  a  man's  mouth.  She 
listened,  leaning  over  the  balustrade. 
The  voice  went  on  singing  until  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  it  had  become  one 
with  the  night,  almost  as  if  it  were 
the  voice  of  the  night  in  this  rocky 
solitude  at  the  edge  of  the  sands. 
^  The  tune  was  ugly,  she  thought,  but 

' 


it  interested  her.  Had  she  spoken 
of  it,  she  would  probably  have  said 
that  it  was  "so  weird."  She  had 
never  before  heard  anything  at  all 
resembling  it.  By  degrees  the  sing- 
ing began  to  affect  her  almost  pain- 
fully, to  play  upon  her  nerves,  to 
make  her  restless  and  uneasy.  She 
took  her  arms  from  the  rail  of  the 
veranda.  Who  was  the  singer  ?  She 
tried  to  locate  the  sound,  and  pres- 
ently it  seemed  to  her  that  it  came 
from  the  spot  where  the  Spahi  was 
standing.  Was  it  really  he  who  was 
singing  ?  Was  it  a — a  serenade  ? 

She  smiled.     Her  swift  vanity  was 
awake.     When  she  moved  the  Spahi 
moved  too.     He  walked  softly  across 
the  little  court,  lifted  his  head  towards  / 
the  veranda  and  showed  Lady  Wy  verne  /; 
his  dark  face  with  the  lips  moving./ 
He  was  the  singer,  and  now,  almost/^ 
insolently,  he  sent  the  song  to  her. 

Ever  since  she   had   "come  out"$% 


Lady  Wyverne  had  been  accustomed 
to  admiration,  even  to  worship — such } 
worship  as  modern  smart  men  have'. 
',  at  their  command  to  give  to  a  pretty  ? 
woman.  But  this  strange,  whining 
serenade  from  an  African  was  a  new 
experience.  The  boldness  of  the  dark 
face  turned  upward  to  her  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  babyish  sound  of 
the  voice  that  issued  from  its  lips, 
formed  a  combination  that  stirred 
her  neurotic  temperament  ever  im- 
patient in  the  search  after  novelty. 
Almost  ere  she  realized  what  she  was 
doing,  she  had  smiled  at  the  Spahi. 
He  stopped  singing  and  smiled  up  at 
her.  Then  he  spoke,  as  if  to  speak 
with  her  were  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world. 

"  Has  madame  ever  seen  the  desert 
under  the  moon?" 

Lady  Wyverne  started  and  half 
drew  back.  This  really  was  carrying 
things  very  far. 


"Madame  is  coming  down?"  said 
the  Spahi,  misinterpreting  the  move- 
ment with  a  delightful,  boyish  inso- 
lence. 

Before  she  knew  that  she  was 
speaking,  Lady  Wyverne  had  said, 
in  French: 

"Certainly  not." 

"It  is  a  pity.  Five  minutes  and 
madame  could  see  the  desert  in  the 
moonlight.  There  is  nothing  to 
fear." 

He  put  his  hand  down  for  an  in- 
stant, then  lifted  it,  and  Lady  Wyv- 
erne saw  the  moonlight  glittering  on 
the  polished  steel  of  a  revolver.  The 
sparkle  fascinated  her  eyes  more  than 
the  sparkle  of  the  stars. 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said. 

This  time  she  spoke  deliberately. 
The  imp,  caprice,  by  which  she  was 
always  governed,  whispered  to  her: 

"This  is  a  new  bit  of  fun!  Don't 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  avoid  it." 


"  But  madame  does  not  care  to  see 
the  desert?" 

At  this  moment  he  noticed  that 
Lady  Wyverne's  blue  eyes  had  trav- 
elled away  from  his  face  and  were 
gazing  at  something  behind  him.  He 
turned,  and  saw  a  train  of  camels  and 
nomads  stealing  by  the  inn  on  their 
way  to  the  desert.  Noiselessly  they 
padded  on  the  narrow  thread  of  road. 
The  nomads  were  muffled  in  ragged 
hoods  and  fluttering  cloaks,  and 
carried  clubs.  With  their  birdlike 
eyes  staring  before  them,  they  passed 
like  phantoms  into  the  shadows  of  the 
gorge.  Their  appearance  and  disap- 
pearance woke  up  in  Lady  Wyverne 
a  vague  sense  of  romance  and  mys- 
tery, a  longing  to  follow  these  strange 
men  and  their  beasts  into  the  silver 
world  which  lay  beyond  the  shadows. 

She  slipped  across  the  veranda  and 
peeped  into  Sir  Claude's  room.  He 
was  snoring  bravely. 


"  Dreaming  of  Barbary  sheep  !" 
murmured  Lady  Wyverne.  "  If  only 
Crumpet  were  a  little  bit  more — 
h'm!" 

She  sighed,  caught  up  a  cloak,  and 
went  softly  down-stairs. 

The  Spahi  met  her  in  the  court- 
yard. The  impudence  of  his  de- 
meanor had  vanished,  and  he  bowed 
with  a  ceremonious  gravity  which 
surprised  Lady  Wyverne,  who  was 
unaccustomed  to  the  rapid  and  com- 
plete changes  of  manner  so  common 
among  Orientals. 

"Will  not  monsieur  come,  too  ?"  he 
asked,  simply. 

"Monsieur!" 

Lady  Wyverne  looked  into  his  great 
eyes  with  a  staring  amazement. 

"Monsieur  is  asleep,"  she  added, 
recovering  herself. 

"So  early!" 

There  was  the  least  hint  of  sar- .',] 
casm  in  his  voice. 

27 


"He  is  going  after  Barbary  sheep 
to-morrow  morning  at  three  o'clock," 
said  Lady  Wyverne,  rather  sharply. 

The  Spahi  looked  steadily  into  her 
pretty,  blond  face. 

"Barbary  sheep!"  he  repeated. 
"Barbary  sheep!" 

There  was  a  note  of  pity  in  his 
voice. 

"  May  I  put  madame's  cloak  round 
her?"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  I— I'm  not  going  out,"  said  Lady 
Wyverne. 

"  But — the  cloak  ?"  he  said,  gravely. 

And  he  took  it  from  her  hands  and, 
swiftly  and  gracefully,  with  an  ex- 
traordinary deftness,  put  it  round 
her. 

"Come,  madame!" 

"But—" 

He  opened  the  gate. 

"It  is  only  five  minutes.  In  a 
Iquarter  of  an  hour  we  are  here  and 

madame  has  seen — ah,  a  thing  more 
28 


wonderful  than  she  has  ever  seen 
England." 

He    held    the    gate    open.     Lady 
Wyverne  stepped  out  into  the  road. 


Next  morning  at  three  o'clock, 
when  the  stars  were  still  shining, 
jLady  Wyverne  heard  her  husband 
moving  about  heavily  in  his  room. 
Presently  he  came  to  her  door,  opened 
it  with  elaborate  caution,  and  passed 
in,  holding  a  candle  in  his  hand.  A 
gun  was  slung  over  his  shoulder.  She 
lay  still,  with  her  eyes  shut,  and  after 
a  moment  he  shut  the  door  and  she 
heard  him  tramp  down  the  stairs. 
His  footsteps  died  away.  Then  she 
heard  outside  a  faint  sound  of  voices, 
the  clatter  of  mules.  He  was  gone. 
She  sighed.  She  was  asking  her- 
self why  she  had  feigned  sleep. 
But  she  did  not  answer  her  own 
question. 

"I    hope    he'll    have    luck,"    she 


thought.     "  I  do  hope  he'll  kill  some 
thing." 

And  then  she  really  slept. 

In  the  afternoon  at  five  o'clock 
Sir  Claude  rode  up  to  the  inn  door 
in  wild  spirits.  Behind  him,  slung 
across  a  mule,  was  a  dead  Barbary 
sheep. 

"Grand  sport!"  he  exclaimed,  look- 
ing up  at  his  wife,  who  was  on  the 
veranda  sitting  on  a  straw  chair.  "  I 
waited  for  hours  to  get  a  shot,  and — 
I  say,  Kit,  you  haven't  been  borin' 
yourself  to  death?" 

"No,  Crumpet." 

"Jolly  little  place,  isn't  it?  I 
shouldn't  mind  spendin'  a  week  here." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered. 

"You  don't  mind?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I'll  do  just  as  you  like." 

"You  are  a  brick,  Kitty!  You 
see,  there's  gazelle  in  the  plain,  too, 
and—" 

"I  know,  I  know." 
30 


He  pounded  up  the  stairs  to  kiss 
her. 

"Poor  old  Crumpet!"  she  thought. 

And  she  felt  as  if  she  were  being 
kissed  by  a  small  school-boy. 

That  evening  at  dinner  they  were 
alone. 

"The  Spahi  chap's  gone?"  asked 
Sir  Claude,  with  an  indifferent  and 
sleepy  glance  round. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  saw  him  about 
to-day.  Perhaps  he's  got  friends  in 
the  village  and  is  eating  a  cous-cous 
with  them." 

"A  what?" 

"A  cous-cous  —  a  stew  —  rice,  or 
something,  and  mutton  and  spices." 

"Jove,  Kitty,  you  are  up  in  all  this 
Arab  rot!     How  the  deuce  do  you^ 
pick  up  such  a  lot  of   information//  / 
about  it?"  n 

"There  is  a  book  called  Murray" (fljfj$/(: 
she  answered,   dryly.     "Do   you 
to  bed  at  eight  to-night?" 


"Well,   I'm  pretty  well  done  up. 
You  see,  startin'  off  at  three  again  to- 
^  morrow.     You  were  sleepin'  like  a 
j»  top  last  night  when  I  looked  in." 

"Ah,"   she   said.     "Now   I   know 
5..  how  tops  sleep." 

"What  d'  you  mean?" 
"Nothing.     Go  to  bed,  old  boy." 
Without  much  persuasion  he  obey- 
ed   the    command.     Barbary    sheep 
had  made  him  very  tired.     He  could 
almost   have   slept   standing   like   a 
horse  that  night. 


IV 


"  \  \  7 AS  the  cous-cous  good  1"  asked 
V  V  Lady  Wyverne,  half  an  hour 
later. 

She  and  the  Spahi  were  walking 
together  slowly  down  the  moonlit 
road  between  the  towering  rocks  of 
the  gorge,  whose  fantastic  silhouettes, 
black  beneath  the  deep-purple  sky  of 
night,  looked  like  the  silhouettes  of 
the  rocks  in  one  of  Dore's  pictures  of 
the  Inferno.  The  noise  of  the  rush- 
ling  waters  of  the  river  was  in  their 
ears  and  almost  drowned  the  murmur 
of  their  voices  as  they  spoke  to  each 
other. 

"I  could  not  eat,  madame." 
j     "Why  not?" 


"I  was  thinking  of  your  departure 
to-morrow,  and  of  mine — far  into  the 
Zibans,  to  the  house  of  my  father." 

"Absurd!"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "I  had  an 
excellent  appetite." 

He  was  silent.  To-night  he  wore 
over  his  shoulders  a  great  red  cloak, 
which  swung  gently  to  and  fro  as 
he  walked  on  with  the  magnificent 
dignity  and  pride  which  is  the  birth- 
right of  the  Arab  race.  She  glanced 
at  him  sideways,  with  a  birdlike  turn 
of  her  little  head. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  "I'm  not 
going  away  to-morrow." 

His  eyes  flashed  on  her  like  fire. 

"Madame?" 

"No,  we  stay  some  days  more. 
^Barbary  sheep,  you  know!"  And 
gshe  laughed,  but  rather  mirthlessly. 

"  Will  you  have  to  ride  from  Beni- 
Mora?"  she  added.  "The  railway 
ends  there,  doesn't  it?" 


"  Yes,  madame.  From  there  I  shall 
ride." 

"How  many  days?" 

"Three  days." 

"And  always  in  the  desert?" 

"Always  in  the  desert." 

"And  then  you  will  reach  your 
home.  How  strange!" 

She  was  thinking  of  Chester  Street, 
Belgrave  Square,  in  which  she  had 
first  seen  the  light.  What  a  gulf 
was  fixed  between  her  and  this  man 
with  whom  she  was  now  adventurous- 
ly walking  through  this  savage  soli- 
tude! And  yet  his  cloak,  as  it  swung, 
touched  the  skirt  of  her  gown,  and 
she  could  see  the  fire  sparkling  in  his 
eyes  as  he  bent  his  head  down  when 
she  spoke  to  him.  And  she — she  had 
a  capricious  desire  to  find  some  bridge 
across  this  gulf,  to  venture  upon  it, 
to  bring  Chester  Street  to  the  Zibans. 
She  was  not  stupid,  and,  being  a 
woman,  she  was  intuitive,  and  so  it 

35 


never  occurred  to  her  even  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  Zibans  could  ever  be 
brought  to  Chester  Street. 

The  sound  of  the  river  sank  to  a 
softer  note  as  its  bed  widened  out, 
leaving  space  for  the  released  waters 
to  flow  quietly  towards  the  palm- 
trees  of  the  first  oasis.  Through  the 
great  natural  aperture  in  the  wall  of 
rock  a  vague  vision  of  glimmering 
spaces  showed  itself,  like  a  mirage  of 
eternity  washed  with  silver.  Lady 
Wyverne  stood  still. 

"No  farther,"  she  said.  "This 
was  where  we  stopped  last  night." 

"One  step  farther  to-night,  ma- 
dame!"  said  the  Spahi.  "One  little 
step." 

"No,  no." 

He   pointed   with   his   hand   out- 
stretched and  the  red  folds  of  his 
jcloak  flowing  down  from  his  arm. 

"But  it  calls  us." 

"What?" 

36 


"The  desert,  madame.     Listen!" 

Lady  Wyverne  looked  at  him.  He 
had  spoken  with  so  much  authority 
that  she  did  not  smile  at  his  remark 
or  think  it  ridiculous.  She  even 
listened,  like  one  in  expectation  of 
r  some  distant  sound,  some  voice  from 
the  far  away  that  lay  beyond  the 
spaces  her  eyes  could  see.  But  in 
the  deep  silence  of  the  night  she  heard 
only  the  murmur  of  the  river  flowing 
into  the  moving  shadows  of  the  palms. 

"There's  no  voice,"  she  said,  at 
last. 

"There  is  a  voice  for  me,"  he  an- 
swered.    "But  I  am  a  son  of  the 
desert." 
|      "Do  you  love  it?" 

"  I  belong  to  it.  It  has  no  secrets 
from  me.  I  have  learned  all  its  les- 
sons." 

"Could  I  learn  them?" 
|       She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  modesty 
very  unusual  in  her. 

37 


IW 


"  Only  with  one  who  belongs  to  the 
desert." 

"Then  I  shall  never  learn  them," 
she  said,  with  a  sort  of  half-childish 
regret. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why  not  ?  What  an  absurd  ques- 
tion!" 

"One  can  learn  what  one  chooses 
to  learn.  I" —  he  spoke  proudly — 
"I  have  learned  to  be  a  French 
officer." 

"I  really  don't  feel  equal  to  learn- 
ing to  be  an  Arab  woman,"  she  re- 
joined, rather  petulantly.  "Besides, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  men 
can  do  a  thousand  things  women 
can't  do." 

"Even  a  woman  can  go  a  step 
farther,  "he  said. 

"Oh  —  well  —  that's  not  very  im- 
portant. I  don't  mind." 

And  she  walked  on. 

He  smiled  as  he  followed  her. 
38 


When  they  came  out  of  the  gorge 
they  were  in  the  full  flood  of  the 
moonlight.  The  change  from  the 
confined  space  of  the  gorge  to  this 
immensity  of  the  desert  was  startling, 
and  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness  and 
danger  rushed  upon  Lady  Wyverne. 
Abruptly  she  realized  that  this  caprice 
of  hers,  besides  being  extremely  un- 
conventional, might  be  something 
more.  She  thought  of  "Crumpet" 
snoring  peacefully  in  the  hotel,  and 
for  the  first  time  wished  that  she 
had  not  left  his  side.  The  Spahi, 
watching  her  face  in  the  bright 
moonlight,  read  with  the  swift  cer- 
tainty of  the  Arab,  always  horribly 
acute  in  summing  up  the  character  / 
and  flying  thoughts  of  the  European, 
all  that  was  passing  in  her  mind  and 
answered  it  in  a  sentence. 

"She  who  loves  the  strange  must' 
not  fear  to  face  it,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Lady  Wyverne  reddened.     She  was  i 


( 


^    ^__.  made  half  angry  by  his  intelligence^ 
;|J,  and  his  assurance.    Nevertheless,  they  }£ 

fascinated  her.     She  was  accustomed  ; 

* 

i*  to  understand  men  much  more  thor- ' 
oughly  than  they  understood  her. 
This  man  put  her  down  from  her  seat 
of  the  mighty  and  calmly  sank  into 
it  himself.  He  puzzled  her  immense- 
ly, but  she  felt  certain  that  she  did 
not  puzzle  him  at  all. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything,"  she 
said.  "You  don't  understand  me." 

She  stopped  in  the  road. 

"  One  may  choose  not  to  do  a  thing 
without  being  afraid  of  doing  it." 

"  But  if  it  is  a  thing  one  longs  to 
do,  madame?" 

He  moved  on  a  step,  then  looked 
back  at  Lady  Wyverne  as  if  sum- 
moning her.  She  stood  firm,  and  he 
stopped  with  serene  resignation. 

"What  on  earth  are  we  talking 
about?"  she  said,  shrugging  her  little 
shoulders  perversely. 


"Your  step  farther." 

"I  have  taken  it.  And  now  I'm 
going  back." 

"And  to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow  you  will  not  be 
here." 

"But — if  I,  too,  should  be  tempt- 
ed to  remain?  Barbary  sheep,  you 
know,  madame,  Barbary  sheep!" 

He  laughed  softly. 

"To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  bed  at 
half -past  eight,"  replied  Lady  Wyv- 
erne,  with  an  air  of  virtue  that  was 
too  violent  to  be  quite  convincing. 
"The  atmosphere  of  the  desert  tires 
me." 

"And  to  me  it  gives  life." 

He  was  so  close  to  her  that  she  felt 
.the  warmth  of  his  great  red  cloak, 
and  smelt  the  faint  odor  of  some 
strange  Oriental  perfume  that  clung 
to  his  garments. 

"That  is  the  difference  between 
us,"  he  added.  "I  am  awake  and 


4 
i 


alive.  You  are  dozing.  And  he — 
he  is  fast  asleep." 

"He — who?"  she  said,  startled  by 
his  tone. 

"  Milord,  your  husband.  But  though 
you  are  dozing,  you  are  not  asleep. 
You  could  be  awake  as  I  am  awake. 
You  could  be  alive  as  I  am  alive,  if 
only—" 

He  stopped  speaking  and  looked 
down  at  her. 

"If  only— what?" 

"If  only  you  were  not  afraid  of 
^being  alive  and  of  feeling  joy." 

He  seemed  to  tower  over  her.  He 
'had  stretched  out  one  arm  and  the 
[great  cloak  made  him  look  vast  in 
[the  night,  vast  and  enveloping.  The 
^perfume  that  came  from  the  folds  of 
>his  scarlet  and  white  clothes  suggest- 
mystery  and  something  else,  a 
^distant  ecstasy  that  might  be  reached 
travelling,  by  going  forward  and 
.onward. 


fci 


"For  you  are  afraid,"  he  said. 
"You  are  very  much  afraid." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  shrill 
cry  in  the  darkness  of  the  gorge,  a 
cry  that  sounded  half  human,  half 
animal.  Lady  Wyverne  started  and 
instinctively  clung  to  the  Spahi's  arm. 
Instantly  the  warm  folds  of  his  cloak 
were  round  her.  The  cry  rose  up  once 
more,  shrill,  prolonged,  and  nearer. 
Then  out  of  the  gorge,  into  the  moon- 
light that  lay  upon  the  road,  there 
came  a  man  capering  and  running. 
His  face  was  fair  and  pale,  like  the 
face  of  a  Christ  in  a  picture,  with  a 
curling,  yellow-brown  beard  and  va- 
cant, restless,  blue  eyes.  In  his  thin 
hands  he  held  an  enormous  staff.  He 
was  dressed  in  bright  green,  and  on  his 
head  there  was  a  green-and-red  turban. 

"Allah!"  he  shrieked,  whirling  the 
staff  round  and  round,  then  pointing 
it  suddenly  to  left  and  right.  "  Allah ! 
Allah!  Al— " 

43 


Lady  Wyverne  cowered  against  the 
Spahi.  To  her  strung-up  imagination 
it  seemed  as  if  the  gorge  had  suddenly 
let  loose  a  crazy  Messiah  to  point  at 
her  a  ringer  of  condemnation.  She 
trembled  as  the  strange  figure  stopped 
before  her,  as  its  shrill  cry  died  away 
in  a  childish  whimper,  and  its  large, 
pale  eyes  rested  upon  hers  in  a  glance 
of  dull  amazement. 

"What  is  —  ?"  she  began,  stam- 
mering. 

"It  is  only  the  mad  Marabout," 
said  the  Spahi,  keeping  his  arm  round 
her  protectively. 

"The  mad  Marabout?" 

"He  was  a  rich  man  of  the  village 
of  Akbara,  the  red  village,  and  loved 
a  dancing -girl  of  Beni-Mora.  One 
night  in  the  week  of  the  races  the 
girl  was  murdered  for  her  jewels  by  a 
Mehari  rider  from  Touggourt.  Since 
then  he  has  been  mad.  He  lives  al- 
ways out-of-doors.  He  eats  only 


44 


what  he  is  given,  what  is  put  into 
hand.     He  sleeps  upon  the  ground. 
By  night  he  wanders,  seeking  the  girl 
who  is  dead  and  calling  upon  Allah  to 
assist  him.     Allah!     Allah!" 

Suddenly  the  Spahi  lifted  up  his 
voice  in  a  powerful  cry.  Instantly 
the  Marabout  began  once  more  to 
whirl  his  staff. 

"Allah!"  he  shrieked.  "Allah! 
Allah!" 

And  he  capered  along  the  road 
towards  the  desert,  striking  to  right 
and  left  of  him  as  if  attacking  the 
moonbeams  that  bore  him  company. 

"He  sees  the  murderer  of  Ayesha 
in  every  ray  of  the  light-giver,"  said 
the  Spahi. 

"Why  not  in  us,  then?"  said  Lady 
Wyverne,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Who  knows  why  ?  Who  can  read 
in  the  soul  of  the  madman?" 

The  Marabout  was  lost  in  the  night, 
and  suddenly  Lady  Wyverne  was 

45 


aware  of  the  arm  enclosing  her.  She 
moved  quickly  and  it  fell  from  about 
her.  But  as  she  walked  on  she  still 
seemed  to  feel  it,  as  one  who  has  been 
touched  by  a  powerful  hypnotist 
seems  to  feel  the  magnetic  hand  long 
after  it  has  been  removed. 


V 


THAT  night,  as  Lady  Wyverne  lay 
awake,    listening    to    the    sound 
of    the    river    passing    through   the 
gorge  on  its  way  to  the  Sahara,  she 
was  troubled  as  she  had  never  been 
troubled    before.       Her    light  —  not 
wicked  —  and   fashionable    life   had 
always   hitherto   been    governed   by 
caprice,  but  caprice  had  led  her  al- 
ways down  flowery  pathways  stretch- 
ing into  spaces  washed  with   light, 
never  into  the  dimness  of  mystery/ 
or  the  blackness  of  sorrow.     She  had  // 
often    felt    quickly  but    never    pas-;,  ,. 
sionately.     Wayward  she  had  ever  £//'/.• 
been,    but    not    violent,    not    really ; 
reckless;  a  creature  of  fantasy,  not} 


a  creature  of  tempest.     The  song  of  T 
JJI1  the  boy  Arab  under  the  rock  by  the  j 
1  river — she  had  been  like  that;  like  aj 
?„*  winding,  airy  tune  going  out  into  the  * 
sun.     Now  she  was  conscious  of  the 
*S-tL.  further    mysteries,    that    lead    some 
women  on  to  deeds  that  strike  like 
hammers  upon  the  smooth  compla- 
cencies of  society,  she  was  aware  of 
the  beckoning  finger  that  pilots  the 
eager  soul  whither  it  should  not  go, 
among  the  great  wastes  where  emo- 
tion broods  and  wonder  is  alive. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  well-filled 
life  she  was  very  consciously  in  want. 
She  had  been  fond  of  change,  yes, 
but  of  such  consecrated  change;  the 
change  from  Mayfair  to  Monte  Carlo, 
or  from  the  Scotch  moors  to  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix.  Now,  suddenly,  this  life 
seemed  to  her  as  unreal  as  a  harle- 
quinade in  which  she  had  been  play- 
ing Columbine,  and  something  within 

her  desired  a  violently  different  life. 
48 


That  she  could  have  it  was  impos- 
sible. Therefore  she  was  unhappy. 
It  was  a  new  experience  to  her  to  be 
confronted  by  that  word  —  impossi- 
ble. It  seemed  to  insult  her.  All  the 
flower  of  her  careless  contentment 
with  herself,  and  her  life,  and  the 
little  kingdom  she  had  ruled,  shriv- 
elled up.  She  was  the  child  crying 
for  the  moon. 

But  she  was  a  child  who  had  been 
offered  the  moon,  who  would  be  of- 
fered the  moon  again.     Where,  then, 
was   the   impossibility   she   brooded 
over  ?     It  was  created  by  herself  and 
vy      existed  within  herself.     The  soul's  "  I 
\     could  never  do  that!"  was  the  fiat 
f&  that  expressed  it. 
\     With  the  sound  of  the  river  seemed 
to  come  to  her  faintly  the  cry  of  the 
^.  mad  Marabout  seeking  the  murdered 
dancing -girl  in  the  moonbeams.     It 
_         was  a  cry  from  the  savage  world  on 
threshold   of   which   she   stood. 


T 

4 


The  man  In  the  scarlet  cloak  and  the 
man  in  the  bright-green  robe  were  the 
two  salient  figures  in  it  for  her,  the 
one  protecting  her,  the  other  coming 
as  if  to  assail  her,  then  falling  list- 
lessly from  his  apparent  purpose  and 
capering  away  intent  upon  his  crazy 
quest.  To-night  these  two  figures 
seemed  more  real  to  her,  more  vital, 
than  the  figure  of  her  husband. 

The  Spahi  had  spoken  the  words, 
"Barbary  sheep,"  with  an  ironical 
^intonation,  and  she  had  read  his 
^  thought  and  her  mind  had  echoed 
(it.  Yet  of  "  Crumpet 's  "  complete  de- 
votion to  her  she  had  no  doubt.  He 
'loved  her,  he  would  defend  her  against 

e  world,  he  would  lie  down  for  her 
[to  tread  upon,  if  she  desired  it,  but 
[ — he  was  "poor  old  Crumpet,"  a  ru- 
idimentary  man.  There  was  no  mys-- 
[tery  in  him. 

She  sniffed  in  the  darkness  as  if 
| inhaling  a  perfume.  She  was  think- 


ing  of  the  perfume  that  clung  about 
the  folds  of  the  Spahi's  cloak.  It  was 
like  a  part  of  him  and  of  the  land  he 
dwelled  in.  She  would  have  thought 
effeminate  a  scented  Western  man. 
But  this,  and  many  another  thing,  is 
readily  forgiven  to  an  Oriental.  They 
are  "different"  from  us,  these  people 
of  the  sun.  It  was  this  "difference" 
that  had  stirred  the  curiosity  and 
something  more  of  Lady  Wyverne. 
Scent  and  a  baby  voice,  a  revolver 
ready  to  protect  her,  an  arm  that  felt 
like  iron  under  a  scarlet  cloak,  black 
eyes  that  were  fierce  as  a  hawk's  or 
velvety  with  tenderness — she  moved 
uneasily  in  her  bed.  She  was  hot 
and  restless  and  had  no  desire  for 
sleep.  What  was  this  man?  What 
was  his  real  nature,  gentle  or  bar- 
barous? His  manners  were  perfect, 
even  in  their  occasional  impudence! 
And  his  heart?  Had  he  been  cruel 
to  women? 

Si 


She  had  known  all  about  Crumpet 
after  talking  to  him  for  half  an  hour. 
She  had  even  read  him  at  a  glance, 
divined  exactly  his  tastes,  realized 
his  foibles,  summed  up  his  faults  and 
his  virtues,  "placed"  him,  in  fact. 
England  breeds  such  men  all  the 
time  to  follow  her  traditions,  to  live 
and  to  die  British  to  the  bone.  Crum- 
pet was  a  thorough  Englishman,  a 
right-down  good-fellow,  to  be  trusted 
at  sight.  Well,  she  had  trusted  him 
and  married  him.  And  ever  since 
then  she  had  had  a  good  time.  And 
her  one  aim  in  life  had  been  just  that 
— to  have  a  good  time. 

And  now?  What  did  she  want? 
How  silly  and  ridiculous  and  mad- 
dening it  all  was! 

Suddenly  she  got  up.  Intending 
only  to  stay  one  night  at  El-Akbara, 
>they  had  sent  on  their  servants  with 
imost  of  the  heavy  luggage  to  Beni- 
Mora,  to  engage  the  best  rooms,  see  to 


T 


their  arrangement,  unpack,  and  have 
everything  ready  and  charming  for 
their  arrival.  She  had  meant  to 
play  at  roughing  it  here.  Now  she 
looked  about  for  her  stockings  and 
slippers  by  the  light  of  a  candle. 
When  at  length  she  had  found  them, 
she  wrapped  herself  up  in  a  fur  cloak, 
stepped  out  onto  the  veranda,  and  be-j| 
gan  to  walk  up  and  down.  She  passed 
and  repassed  Crumpet 's  window .  Once 
or  twice  she  stopped  in  front  of  it, 
hesitating.  She  was  half  inclined  to 
go  into  his  room,  to  wake  him,  to  tell 
him  that  he  must  think  no  more  of 
Barbary  sheep,  but  take  her  away  on 
the  morrow  to  Beni-Mora.  Then  she 
walked  on  again,  saying  to  herself  that 
it  would  be  a  shame  to  wake  the  tired 
man  who  was  snoring  so  rhythmically. 
If  only  Crumpet  didn't  snore! 
Lady  Wyverne  caught  herself  won- 
dering whether  other  people  —  yes, 
other  people — snored. 

53 


The  moon  faded,  and  the  thread  of 
the  road  beyond  the  Judas-trees  lost 
its  silvery  hue  and  looked  gray.  The 
air  was  colder. 

"Barbary  sheep,"  Lady  Wyverne 
murmured  to  herself. 

She  stopped  again  by  Crumpet's 
window,  and  this  time  she  pushed  it 
back  and  went  into  his  room,  treading 
softly.  A  faint  light,  entering  behind 
her,  showed  her  vaguely  the  bed  and 
the  long  body  stretched  upon  it.  She 
touched  the  body  with  her  little  hand. 

"Crumpet!" 

"Er— a-ah!" 

The  snore  was  broken,  and  from 
the  sleeper's  mouth  came  a  heavy, 
sighing  exclamation  that  sounded  like 
a  dull  protest  drowned  in  a  yawn. 
Lady  Wyverne  pushed  the  body. 

"Crumpet!" 

"A-ah!" 

"  It's  no  use.  You've  got  to  wake 
up!" 

54 


Sir  Claude  shifted  round,  making 
the  bed  creak,  heaved  himself  half 
up,  sank  back  again,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  stared. 

"  Is  it— a-ah !— is  it  Achmed  ?" 

"  No,  it  isn't  Achmed.    Wake  up !" 

"  Who  the  dev— "  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  felt  her  hand,  her  face. 
"Kitty!  What  is  it?  You're  not 
ill?" 

"No." 

She  sat  down  on  a  hard  chair  by 
his  bed. 

"It's  only  that  I  can't  sleep." 

"What's  the— a-ah!— what's  the 
time?" 

"I  don't  know.  Never  mind.  I 
want  to  talk." 

He  lay  resting  on  his  elbow  and 
staring  towards   her  in   the  gloom 
She  thought  he  looked  like  a  huge 
ghost. 

"What  about?  I  wonder  if  it  '11 
be  a  good  mornin'  for  sport." 


"  Crumpet,  haven't  you  had  enough 
sport?"  , 

"Enough — how  d'  you  mean?"       j 

"  Aren't  you  tired  of  killing  things  ?" ' 

She  thought  she  saw  an  expression 
of  blank  surprise  come  into  his  face, 
but  she  was  not  quite  certain.  The 
gloom  prevented  her  from  being  cer- 
tain. 

"Tired  of  killin'  things?     Why?" 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  make  things 
live,  things  that  aren't  really  alive? 
Wouldn't  you,  Crumpet?" 

"  What  d'  you  mean,  Kitty  ?  Make 
things  live!  I  ain't  Providence." 

"No,  but— " 

"Stop  a  sec — "  He  laid  one  hand 
on  her  arm.  "Isn't  that  Achmed 
bringing  out  the  mules  ?  I  say,  what 
is  the  time  ?  We're  goin'  farther  into 
the  mountains  to-day." 

"Must  you  go?  Must  you  go  so 
far?" 

"Well,  Achmed  says—" 
56 


"I  don't  want  to  hear  about 
Achmed.  He's  a  great,  ugly,  horrid 
creature." 

"Ugly!  What's  it  matter  if  he's 
ugly?  Why,  he's  the  very  deuce  for 
knowin'  where  the — " 

"Don't  say  Barbary  sheep,  Crum- 
pet! For  mercy's  sake,  don't  say 
Barbary  sheep!" 

"Well,  but  it's  Barbary  sheep 
we're  goin'  after.  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  Kitty?" 

"  I  could  never  explain  so  that  you 
could  understand." 

"  Ee— ya !     Ee— ee— ya !" 

\There  came  a  cry  from  below,  a 
stamping  of  hoofs  upon  stone.     Sir 
Claude  sprang  up. 
"Jove,  it  is  Achmed!     I  must  get 
^sr     into  my  togs!     I  say,  Kitty — " 
^-.     But  she  had  glided  away  like  a 
shadow  and  left  him. 

When  he  was  dressed  he  came  out 


":  :=gg=onto  the  veranda  and  found  her  there, 


<• 


leaning  on  the  parapet  and  looking 
over  at  Achmed  and  the  mules. 

"Do  go  to  bed,  Kitty,"  he  said. 

"What's  the  good  if  I  can't  sleep ?" 

"But  you  generally  sleep  stun- 
ninly." 

"I  know." 

"Don't  this  place  suit  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden 
anxiety,  but  she  felt  sure  the  anx- 
iety was  for  himself. 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  answered. 

"  D'  you  want  to  get  away?" 

He  gazed  at  her  almost  fearfully. 
"Barbary  sheep,"  she  thought,  and 
she  laughed  bitterly.  She  read  Crum- 
pet's  mind  with  such  horrible  ease. 
She  saw  into  him  with  such  precision. 
And  what  was  there  to  see  ?  A  whole 
flock  of  Barbary  sheep  waiting  to  be 
killed. 

"  Oh,  go  along,  Crumpet!"  she  said, 
almost  roughly.  "Don't  stand  here 
S  asking  me  questions  when  you  might 


,f         •: 


be  killing  things.  Just  think  of  it, 
Crumpet!  Killing  poor,  innocent, 
happy  things!" 

And  she  laughed  again  with  an 
irony  that  startled  him. 

"You  ain't  well,  Kitty,"  he  said. 
"You  ain't  yourself." 

"As  if  you  knew  what  myself  is!" 

She  threw  the  words  at  him  sav- 
agely. At  that  moment  she  was  like 
a  little  tigress. 

He  stared,  then,  as  she  turned 
away,  he  went  off  muttering  to  him- 
self: "What  the  devil's  up?  What's 
come  to  Kitty?"  It  struck  him  that 
she  must  be  getting  bored,  and  he 
resolved  not  to  stay  for  a  week  as  he 
had  intended,  not  to  go  after  gazelle. 
He  even  hesitated  for  a  moment 
when  he  was  in  the  court-yard,  and 
thought  of  giving  up  his  expedition, 
of  returning  to  his  wife,  of  leaving 
with  her  that  day  for  Beni-Mora. 

But  Achmed  held  the  mule  for  him, 

59 


with  huge,  black  eyes  mutely  inviting 
him  to  mount.  And  the  thought  of 
the  cool  air  on  the  mountain,  the 
savagery  of  the  rocky  wastes,  the  sun- 
rise, over  the  distant  desert,  and  the 
prey — the  prey  that  was  so  difficult  to 
come  at — rose  in  his  mind.  He  had 
his  imagination  of  the  hunter,  though 
Lady  Wyverne  did  not  realize  it. 
And  it  tempted  him,  it  enticed  him, 
as  she  was  tempted  and  enticed  by 
the  Goblin  men  of  Goblin  market, 
who  laid  their  hands  upon  her  sleeve 
in  the  empty  hours,  and  whispered, 
"Come — come  where  we  will  lead 
you!" 


VI 


THAT  morning,  when  she  came^0-, 
down  to  breakfast,  Lady  Wyv-| 
erne  did  not  see  the  Spahi.  But  she 
had  not  seen  him  on  the  previous 
morning.  She  realized  that  as  well 
as  a  desert  man  he  was  a  man  of  the 
world.  He  had  lived  with  French 
officers  and  had  been  to  Paris,  and 
knew  when  to  give  way  to  his  desire 
and  when  to  hold  back.  The  good 
people  of  the  inn,  after  the  table- 
d'hote  dinner  was  over,  went  to  their 
supper,  and  from  their  supper  straight 
to  their  beds,  leaving  only  an  Arab 
to  look  after  the  door.  Arabs  are 
great  gossips.  But  this  Arab  would 
not  gossip.  The  Spahi  had  taken 

61 


thought  for  that.  But  when  the  sun 
was  up  he  was  away.  Lady  Wyverne 
wondered  where. 

After  breakfast  she  wandered  out 
through  the  gorge  and  the  gate  of  the 
Sahara,  accompanied  by  a  guide  from 
the  inn,  a  slim  and  sleepy  youth,  who 
smiled  at  her  and  smoked  cigarettes 
and  said  little.  When  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  river  she  heard  a  piping, 
and  there,  under  the  orange-colored 
rock,  sat  the  Arab  boy  who  played 
the  capricious  tune.  She  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  listen  to  it.  She 
did  not  know  that  she  was  a  being 
made  up  of  caprice,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  airy  music  that  ap- 
pealed to  her. 

"Is  he  always  there  playing?"  she 
asked  of  the  guide. 

"Always,  madame." 

"Doesn't  he  get  sick  of  it?" 

"Madame?" 

"Doesn't  he  get  bored  always  sit- 


ting  in  the  same  place  and  doing  the 
same  thing?" 

"I  do  not  know,  madame." 

It  was  evident  that  the  guide  had 
no  idea  what  being  bored  might  mean. 
Lady  Wyverne  looked  at  him  almost 
with  envy.  The  hurry  and  rush  of 
modern  life  seemed  more  than  strange 
here,  crazy  and  vulgar.  She  won- 
dered whether,  if  she  were  to  remain 
in  this  land,  she  could  catch  its  dream- 
ing silence,  could  be  moulded  by  its 
large  simplicity  into  a  simpler  woman. 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  red  village, 
madame?" 

"Which  is  it?  That  one  on  the 
hill?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

She  nodded.     The  great  palm  gar- 
dens   that    fringed    the    river    and*// 
nestled  round  the  brown  earth  houses/  & 
attracted  her,  held  for  her  a  charm.  7™ 
They  looked  opulent  and  mysterious, 
as  if  strange  beings  passed  strange  m 
63 


:'  shadows.     She 

'  guide  into  the  green  fastnesses  of  the  j 
c'j*  grove,  and  the  Arab  boy's  melody  died ' 
away  in  the  embraces  of  the  sun. 

Presently  the  river  made  a  curve, 
and  she  perceived  that  to  gain  the 
red  village  she  must  cross  it.  She 
glanced  about  for  stepping-stones, 
but  could  see  none. 

"  How  do  we  get  across  ?"  she  asked 
the  Arab. 

"I  shall  carry  madame.  But  we 
must  go  a  little  lower  down.  The 
water  is  deep  here." 

They  went  on  slowly  over  the  un- 
even brown  earth  among  the  wrinkled 
trunks.  Lady  Wyverne  looked  more 
closely  than  before  at  her  attendant. 
He  was  quite  a  boy,  with  small  limbs, 
delicate  hands.  She  looked  at  the 
running  water. 

"You  will  never  be  able  to  carry 
me,"  she  said. 

64 


GL 


\ 


"Oh  yes,  madame.  And  if  you 
fall  you  will  not  be  drowned." 

She  could  not  help  laughing  at  his 
nonchalance,  but  his  answer  hardly 
reassured  her. 

"Is  it  much  farther  —  the  ford,  I 
mean?"  she  asked. 

"  Where  that  apricot-tree  leans  over 
the  water,  madame." 

He  pointed.  As  he  did  so  a  figure 
came  out  from  the  recesses  of  the 
grove  and  stood  quite  still  beneath 
the  fruit  tree. 

"There  is  Benchaalal!"  said  the 
guide. 

"Benchaalal?" 

"The  Spahi." 

Lady  Wyverne  shaded  her  eyes 
.  with  one  hand. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked,  care- 
\  lessly. 

But  she  had  recognized  the  com- 
panion of  her  night  walks,  and  her 
heart  beat  perceptibly  quicker. 

6S 


"He  is  at  madame's  hotel.  Ma- 
dame has  seen  him." 

"Oh,  the  officer." 

"He  is  terrible.  He  is  the  best 
horseman  of  the  Sahara.  With  the 
revolver  he  can  hit  any  stone  I  throw 
up  into  the  air — so!" 

He  flung  a  stone  up  towards  the 
quivering  blue  of  the  sky. 

"  All  women  who  see  him  love  him. 
In  Algiers  they  die  for  him,  and  in  the 
desert,  where  he  returns  to  his  father's 
house,  they  will  cry  out  thus  from 
morning  until  evening." 

He  broke  into  a  high  twittering  like 

bird.  The  man  under  the  apricot- 
tree  turned  round  and  looked  towards 
them. 

"Hush!"  said  Lady  Wyverne. 

But  the  boy  did  not  heed  her. 
Delighted  with  the  success  of  his 
female  impersonation,  he  twittered 

The  Spahi 


more  shrilly  than  before. 


When  he  was 


close  to  them  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his 
turban  and  saluted  gravely. 

"  I  believe  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
seeing  madame  at  the  hotel  ?"  he  said, 
almost  as  if  interrogatively.  "Ma- 
dame is  going  to  cross  the  river?" 

Lady  Wyverne  hesitated.  She 
knew,  of  course,  that  the  Spahi  was 
going  to  carry  her  over.  She  saw  his 
intention  in  his  long  and  subtle  eyes. 
She  wished  him  to  carry  her.  She 
even  longed  ridiculously  to  be  carried 
by  him.  But  she  hesitated,  because 
she  was  now  fully  aware  that  there 
was  within  her  something  that  was 
more  than  wilful,  something  that  was 
only  kept  back  from  running  wild  by 
— a  what?  A  thin  thread  of  resolu- 
tion that  might  be  snapped  in  a 
moment,  or  even  brushed  aside.  And 
she  feared  that  the  touch  of  the 
Spahi,  like  the  hand  of  the  East  laid 
upon  her,  might  snap,  or  brush  aside 
that  barrier,  might  send  her  unfet- 


tered,  unrestrained,  into  a  terrible 
world  of  light. 

But  while  Lady  Wyverne  hesitated 
the  guide  spoke. 

"I  am  going  to  carry  madame 
across." 

The  Spahi  laughed.  His  little,  even 
teeth  gleamed  between  his  dark  lips. 

"Madame  permits  me?" 

He  took  Lady  Wyverne  up  in  his 
arms. 

"No!"  she  said. 

He  looked  into  her  face.  As  he 
did  so  he  made  a  secret  sign  to  the 
guide  to  pull  off  his  gaiters  and 
boots.  The  boy  bent  down  to  do 
so,  swiftly,  deftly. 

"  Why  not  ?     It  is  only  a  moment." 

He  balanced  himself  on  one  foot. 
The  first  gaiter  and  boot  were  off. 

She  was  quite  still  in  his  arms.  She 
^felt  as  if  he  could  hold  her  forever 
^without  fatigue. 

"I  don't  want  to  go." 

68 


5V^  I»I*»*WWP* 


"But   you   were   going, 
afraid  of  the  water?" 

"No." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  me  ?" 

He  balanced  himself  on  the  other 
foot.  The  second  gaiter  and  boot 
were  off,  and  the  Spahi's  bare,  brown 
feet  clung  to  the  hot  stones  as  if  they 
loved  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

She  did  not  know  why  she  said  it. 
Certainly  she  did  not  say  it  merely 
because  it  was  true. 

"  I  will  teach  you  not  to  be  afraid," 
he  murmured. 

And  he  stepped  into  the  water. 

Lady  Wyverne  shut  her  eyes  be- 
cause, since  this  thing  was  to  be,  she 
desired  to  feel,  to  realize  it  to  the 
utmost.  When  the  Spahi  put  her 
down  on  the  opposite  shore  she 
sighed,  almost  like  a  child.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  they  rested  upon 
the  Spahi's  bare  feet. 


The  foot  of  the  desert  man  is  as 
expressive  as  his  hand,  and  often  as 
fine,  as  delicate.  These  feet  gave  to 
Lady  Wyverne  an  extraordinary  im- 
pression of  finesse,  which  almost  made 
her  think  of  herself  as  clumsy.  She 
contrasted  swiftly  this  vital  impres- 
sion of  finesse  with  the  equally  vital 
impression  of  strength  of  which  she 
had  just  been  conscious,  and  she 
wondered  at  the  extremes  that  were 
mingled  in  this  man,  at  the  woman 
la  that  was  surely  in  him  as  well  as  the 
j  man  and  the  savage  man.  Suddenly 
•giving  the  rein  to  her  impulse,  she 
said: 

"Have  you  your  revolver?" 

He  drew  it  instantly  from  the  folds 
of  his  scented  garments. 

"Throw  up  a  stone,"  she  said  to 
the  guide,  who  had  just  come  up  to 
them,  holding  the  boots  and  gaiters 
of  the  Spahi  in  his  hand. 

The  boy  went  away  a  few  steps, 
70 


stood  in  front  of  the  Spahi,  looked  at 
him,  bent  down  and  picked  up  a 
stone.  The  Spahi  smiled  and  lifted 
the  hand  that  held  the  revolver.  He 
cried  out  a  word  in  Arabic.  The 
boy  flung  the  stone  high  into  the 
blue.  There  was  a  sharp  report,  and 
it  fell  in  splinters  and  was  hidden 
by  the  water  of  the  river. 

"Crumpet  couldn't  do  that!" 

"Madame?" 

The  exclamation  had  come  invol- 
untarily from  Lady  Wyverne's  lips. 

' '  Crompetes — vous  dites  ? ' ' 

"Au  revoir,  monsieur,  and   many 
thanks." 

She  suddenly  realized  that  she  was 
losing  her  head,  turned  quickly  away, 
and    began    to    walk    towards    the 
village.     The  Spahi  did  not  attempt// 
to  follow  her.     But  he  detained  thef  ^ 
guide  for  a  moment,  and  spoke  rapidly  ^j 
to  him  in  Arabic. 

That  afternoon  at  four  Lady  Wy-i 


u  ,tr 


for   her  husband.     The   wicker   tea-  j 
table  was  beside   her.      She   looked  • 


L*  across  the  court  between  the  Judas- 
trees  to  the  dusty  road,  and  listened 
for  the  sound  of  mules'  tripping  feet. 
But  she  did  not  hear  them.  The 
time  passed  on.  Crumpet  was  later 
than  usual.  At  last  she  was  tired  of 
waiting  and  called  over  the  balus- 
trade to  the  Arab  below  to  bring  up 
tea.  Just  as  it  was  being  brought 
there  came  along  the  road  an  Arab 
boy  with  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
He  turned  in  through  the  gateway, 
looked  up  to  Lady  Wyverne,  and  held 
up  the  paper. 

"Is  it  for  me?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  She  beckoned  to  him 
to  come,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  be- 
side her  and  had  given  her  the  note. 
It  was  from  Sir  Claude. 

"DARLING  OLD  GIRL,  —  D'  you  mind 
very  much  if  I  do  not  come  back  to-night  ? 
72 


I've  got  two  sheep  this  morning,  and 
Achmed  says  if  I  stay  out  and  sleep  at — 
some  place  near  a  salt  mountain  with  the 
devil's  own  name  —  I  can  be  certain  of 
potting  some  gazelle  at  sundown.  Back 
to-morrow  without  fail,  and  ready  to  move 
on  to  Beni — what  you  may  call  it.  Love, 

"  CRUMPET." 

Lady  Wyverne  gave  the  boy  a  coin 
and  sat  down  alone  to  tea. 

"Why  did  Providence  give  me  a 
fool  for  a  husband?" 

That  was  her  thought. 

As  she  sipped  her  tea  she  seemed  to 
see  the  Spahi's  brown  feet  resting  on 
the  warm  stones  by  the  river.  They 

\clung  to  the  stones  as  sensitively  as 
hands  could  have  clung.     She  imag- 
fe  ined  them   padding   softly  over  the 

\desert  sands. 

^=_        And  a  woman's   feet  trod  beside 
"^^.  them. 


VII 


THE  place  with  the  devil's  own 
name  alluded  to  by  Sir  Claude 
was  El-Alia  in  the  plain  at  the  foot 
of  the  salt  mountain,  which  travellers 
see  from  the  train  as  they  journey  to 
Beni-Mora.  That  evening,  as  dark- 
ness was  closing  in,  Sir  Claude,  weary 
with  a  long  day's  hunting,  but  trium- 
phant in  the  knowledge  of  slaughtered 
Barbary  sheep  and  gazelle,  was  seated 
under  a  vine  before  the  door  of  an 
auberge  kept  by  an  elderly  French- 
woman, discussing  with  a  voracious 
appetite  an  excellent  meal  of  gazelle, 
with  vegetables,  a  chicken,  a  cous- 
cous, and  a  salad,  washed  down  by 
a  bottle  of  thin  red  wine,  which  he 


would  have  despised  in  London,  but 
which  now  seemed  to  him  more  de- 
licious than  a  vintage  claret  drunk 
under  ordinary  town  circumstances. 
The  two  days  of  out -door  life  in 
wild  surroundings  and  glorious  air, 
the  contact  with  Africans,  who  were 
mighty  hunters,  his  prowess  in  killing 
things — as  Lady  Wyverne  described 
sport — had  given  an  edge  to  his  spirit 
as  well  as  to  his  appetite.  He  felt 
in  glorious  condition,  at  peace  with 
himself  and  all  the  world.  The  only 
cloud  to  dim  his  immense  satisfaction 
was  the  thought  of  his  promise  to  Kitty 
to  go  away  on  the  morrow.  Beni- 
Mora  was  far  less  good  as  a  sporting 
centre  than  El-Akbara.  He  would 
have  liked  to  spend  another  week,  or, 
better,  another  month,  at  the  cosey 
little  hotel  in  the  gorge.  Only  Kitty 
was  bored.  She  had  showed  it.  She 
had  asked  him  to  take  her  away. 
Vaguely  he  remembered  their  inter- 


view  in  the  night.  He  had  been 
half  asleep  at  first,  and  afterwards 
pre- occupied  by  the  thought  that 
Achmed  was  bringing  round  the 
mules.  Nevertheless,  he  remembered 
Kitty's  odd,  nervous  anxiety,  the 
unusual  irony  and  bitterness  of  her 
speech. 

"P'r'aps  she  thinks  I'm  neglectin' 
her,"  he  thought,  as  he  refilled  his 
glass.  "Women  never  understand 
what  sport  is  to  a  man,  unless  they 
shoot  themselves.  And  Kitty  hates 
a  gun." 

That  she  liked  a  revolver  he  did 
not  know. 

He  put  down  his  glass  and  turned 
in  his  chair,  looking  towards  the  open 
door  of  the  auberge. 

"Caf eT'  he  shouted. 

"Voila!"  shrieked  a  voice  from 
Svithin. 

Sir  Claude  smiled  and  drew  forth 

his    cigar-case,    at   the    same    time 

76 


stretching  out  his  long  legs  with 
audible  grunt  of  satisfaction. 

Achmed  had  gone  off  to  eat  and 
chatter  with  friends  in  the  village, 
which  lay  hidden  among  palms  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  auberge,  and 
the  coffee  was  brought  out  by  the 
landlady,  who  set  it  on  the  table  and 
then  asked  monsieur  if  he  had  en- 
joyed his  dinner. 

Sir  Claude  felt  expansive,  and  his 
reply  brought  joy  to  his  cook's  heart. 
For  landlady  and  cook  were  both  rep- 
resented by  the  stout  woman  with 
the  gray  hair,  the  wrinkled  cheeks, 
and  the  blue  apron  who  stood  before 
|  him,  watching  him  with  shrewd  curi- 
|  osity  in  her  dark-gray  eyes. 

"Sit  down,  madame,"  said  Sir 
Claude,  genially,  in  his  English  pub- 
lic-school French.  "Sit  down  and 
take  a  glass  of  cognac." 

The  landlady  obeyed,  smiling  and 
smoothing  her  apron.  She  admired 


77 


man,  and  she  considered  Sir 
Claude  an  exceedingly  handsome 
specimen  of  humanity. 

"What  brought  you  to  this  out- 
of-the-way  place?"  continued  Sir 
Claude. 

The  landlady  sipped  her  cognac 
with  an  "a  votre  sante",  monsieur  1" 
and  proceeded  to  relate  her  history, 
or  that  part  of  it  which  she  thought 
edifying — how  she  had  been  born  at 
Marseilles  and  brought  to  Algiers  by 
her  parents;  how  she  had  married  a 
waiter  in  a  cafe  who  had  taken  to 
drink  and  at  last  lived  only  for  ab- 
sinthe; how  they  had  drifted  from 
one  place  to  another,  and  finally 
settled  at  El- Alia,  where  he  had  died 
three  years  before. 

"And  you  live  alone  here  among 
the  Arabs?"  cried  Sir  Claude. 

"No,  m'sieur,  I  have  my  nephew 
Robert.  But  to-night  he  is  at  Beni- 
Mora.  He  has  gone  to  buy  provi- 


sions.  All  our  tinned  food  comes 
from  there." 

She  sipped  again  with  her  eyes  on 
Sir  Claude.  The  shadows  beneath 
the  vine  grew  deeper.  The  pale  salt 
mountain  was  fading  away  like  a 
ghost  in  the  night.  Over  the  wide 
and  lonely  land  the  desert  wind  came 
sighing,  bringing  a  vital,  an  almost 
stinging  freshness  of  the  wastes.  Sir 
Claude  gazed  out  across  the  plain, 
then  at  the  gray-haired  Frenchwoman 
with  her  little  liqueur  -  glass  in  her 
fingers. 

"Even  so,  it's  a  solitary  life,  ma- 
dame,"  he  said.  "But  I  suppose 
you  make  friends  with  the  Arabs?" 

The  landlady  curled  her  lips,  and 
an  almost  malignant,  catlike  look 
came  into  her  face. 

"Oh,  la,  la!  The  Arabs!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "The  Arab  is  traitre, 
m'sieur.  Every  Arab  that  was  ever 
born  is  traitre.  You  may  take  my 


word  for  it.  I  have  lived  among 
them  nearly  all  my  life.  Never  trust 
£  an  Arab.  He  will  live  with  you  for 
twenty  years  and  then  cut  your 
throat  for  a  sou.  What  I  have  seen! 
What  I  have  known  among  the  Arabs ! 
They  are  clever,  but  yes!  They  are 
handsome.  They  can  get  round  a 
man,  and  as  for  women — well!"  She 
spread  out  her  hands  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  "  I  myself  when  I  was 
younger — but  enough!  The  Arab  is 
traitre,  m'sieu.  He  will  sell  his  soul 
for  money,  and  to  satisfy  his  lust  he 
will  lie,  he  will  cajole,  he  will  bribe,  he 
will  betray,  he  will  murder.  I  could 
tell  you  stories!  And  an  Arab  is 
always  an  Arab.  He  never  changes. 
He  seems  to  change — yes,  but  it  is 
only  the  surface.  The  bottom  is  al- 
ways the  same.  He  goes  to  Paris. 
He  speaks  French  as  I  do.  He  learns 
the  lovely  manners  of  the  Parisian. 
Mon  Dieu!  He  might  go  to  a  court 

So 


if  we  had  one  in  my  beautiful  France. 
And  then  he  comes  back  to  the  desert 
and  at  once  all  is  forgotten.  He  sits 
in  the  sand,  he  spits,  he  eats  cous- 
cous with  his  fingers — he  is  a  camel, 
m'sieu,  he  is  a  camel.  Such  is  the 
Arab!  Beware  of  him!  Has  m'sieu 
a  wife?" 

The  abrupt  question  startled  Sir 
Claude,  who  had  been  listening  to  this 
tirade  with  a  good  deal  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"Er — yes,"  he  replied,  uneasily. 

"Never  let  her  have  anything  to 
K  do  with  the  Arabs!" 

\"Good  Lord,  madame!  As  if  my 
wife—" 

f®       "Never,     never  1"     continued    the 
\landlady,    vehemently.      "The   Arab 
===_.    has  a  charm  for  women.     I  myself 
""N  have  felt  it,  I  who  speak  to  you !   He 
calls  and  they  come.     I  could  tell  you 
___       of  European  ladies — but  enough !  The 
desert    holds    its    mysteries.     I    re- 


member  Benchaalal,  the  Spahi,  the 
son  of  Mohammed  Ali,  he  who  came 
from  the  Zibans  and  is  now  an  officer 
in  Algiers.  The  stories  he  has  told 
me  of  his  doings!  The  things  he  has 
related  to  me  of  the  French  ladies — 

"The  Spahi!"  said  Sir  Claude,  more 
uneasily.  "What  did  you  say  his 
name  was?" 

"Benchaalal,  m'sieu,  son  of  Mo- 
hammed Ali,  the  great  Caid.  He  is 
beautiful.  One  cannot  deny  it.  He 
speaks  French  perfectly.  He  shoots 
— ah,  no  Frenchman  can  shoot  like 
him!  He  is  strong.  I  have  seen  him 
take  up  a  walnut  and  crack  it  in  his 
fingers." 

"The  devil!" 

"M'sieu?" 

"Nothing.  Go  on,  madame,  go 
on!" 

Sir  Claude  had  sat  up,  and  was  now 
leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  his  garrulous  com- 


panion.  The  darkness  took  the  wide 
spaces  of  the  land,  and  the  night 
wind  came  again  over  the  immense 
flats,  and  made  the  dry  and  dusty 
leaves  of  the  vine  rustle  above  their 
heads. 

"But  he  is  the  most  traitre  of  all 
the  Arabs,  and  he  loves  to  tell  of  his 
villanies.  When  he  goes  to  the 
desert  to  visit  his  father,  he  always 
passes  by  here.  Sometimes  he  stays 
for  a  day  or  two  and  goes  out  after 
gazelle.  And  at  night  he  sits  here 
under  the  vine  with  me,  m'sieu,  as 
you  are  doing  now,  and  he  talks. 
Ah,  he  is  cruel,  and  yet — 

Again  she  spread  out  her  hands 
and  blew  forth  a  sigh  to  join  the  wind 
among  the  vine-leaves. 

"  One  must  look  at  him.  One  must 
listen  to  him.  M'sieu,  I  dare  say  the 
devil,  if  he  came  out  of  the  desert,  if 
he  sat  here,  I  dare  say  the  devil  would 
charm  a  wroman.  Who  knows?" 
83 


"You  say  he  can  crack  a  walnut 
with  his  fingers?" 

"But  yes,  m'sieu.  And  yet  his 
hands  are  slim  as  a  woman's.  Tiens ! 
He  should  be  passing  here  in  a  day  or 
two.  They  tell  me  he  is  en  congeV' 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"Do  I  remember?  These  things 
go  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  the  desert 
as  quickly  as  fire  from  straw  to  straw. 
We  have  news  in  the  desert,  I  can  tell 
you.  It  is  getting  dark.  Shall  I 
fetch  the  lamp  out  here  for  m'sieu?" 

"Yes,  fetch  the  lamp,  madame." 

The  landlady  got  up  and  went 
quickly  in  through  the  door,  her  gray 
dress  wagging  from  her  broad  hips. 
When  she  had  gone  Sir  Claude  got 
up,  too,  and  went  to  the  entrance  of 
the  arbor.  He  could  no  longer  see 
the  salt  mountain.  It  was  a  dark 
?night,  for  the  moon  had  not  yet  risen, 
s  Presently  it  would  come  and  bathe 
this  lonely  world  in  light.  Meanwhile 


he  wanted  the  lamp.  The 
added  to  a  strange  apprehension 
which  had  been  brought  to  him  by 
the  landlady's  gossip.  As  he  stood 
staring  vaguely  before  him  towards 
the  desert,  he  remembered  his  first 
evening  in  the  inn  at  El-Akbara.  He 
had  got  up  from  the  dining-table  to 
go  to  bed  and  had  heard  a  sharp  little 
sound  in  the  room.  He  seemed  to 
hear  it  now,  to  see  the  Spahi  delicately 
extracting  the  kernel  from  the  nut- 
shell. Even  then  he  had  been  con- 
scious of  a  faint  and  creeping  un- 
easiness, of  a  hesitation  which  he  had 
not  understood.  The  Spahi  was  cer- 
tainly this  Benchaalal.  Of  that  he 
was  convinced. 

Well,  and  what  if  he  was  ? 

Sir  Claude  was  not  a  very  imagina- 
tive man,  but  he  was  not  totally 
devoid  of  imagination.  He  was,  as 
has  been  said,  by  nature  somewhat 
cautious  and  sceptical,  as  Lady  Wyv- 

8s 


erne  was  incautious  and  inclined  to 
superstition  and  credulity.  But  he 
had  never  doubted  his  wife.  He 
loved  her,  but  even  if  he  had  not,  the 
mere  fact  that  she  was  his  wife  would 
probably  have  preserved  her  from 
any  suspicion  on  his  part.  Yet  he 
had  lived  in  the  London  world  from 
time  to  time  and  knew  what  went  on 
sometimes  there.  He  had  heard  cer- 
tain husbands  laughed  at,  or  sneered 
at  in  the  clubs,  and  had  seen  them 
welcomed  immediately  afterwards  by 
the  laughers  and  the  sneerers  with 
open  hands  and  hearts.  He  had 
known  charming  women  to  do  things 
that  were  not  charming — to  use  no 
stronger  phrase. 

What  had  been  the  matter  with 
Kitty  that  morning? 

The  landlady  came  back  with  a 
lamp  which  she  set  down  on  the  table. 
But  now  Sir  Claude  felt  restless,  as  if 
he  could  not  return  to  his  chair. 

86 


"I  wonder  where  Achmed  is,"  he 
said. 

"  In  the  village,  m'sieu.  Ah,  Ach- 
med— he  is  another  of  them!" 

"Achmed?" 

"  But  yes,  m'sieu.  The  things  he 
has  done,  the  things  he  will  do  for  a 
few  francs!  You  would  not  believe 
them  if  I  told  you." 

"  Is  he — is  Achmed  a  friend  of  this 
Spahi?" 

"  Of  Benchaalal  ?  A  friend  I  would 
not  say.  Benchaalal  is  proud.  And 
since  he  has  been  in  Paris — ah,  he 
does  not  speak  with  every  one,  not 
he!" 

"But  he  knows  Achmed?" 

"  And  how  should  he  not  know  him, 
m'sieu?  Why— 

But  Sir  Claude  interrupted  the 
good  woman  abruptly. 

' '  Tell  me , "  he  said .  ' '  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  Ben — what  is  it?" 

"Benchaalal,  m'sieu." 


"That  Benchaalal  has  not  passed T 
by  here  without  stopping?" 

"He   has   not  passed,   m'sieu.     If: 
#  he  had  I  should  know  it.     They  would 

have  seen  him  at  the  station." 
=^-=^     "And  you  know  he  is  en  conge?" 

"M'sieu,  he  is.  He  should  have 
come  by  yesterday  at  latest,  if  not 
the  day  before.  But  perhaps  he  is  at 
El-Akbara,  where  m'sieu  is  staying. 
I  asked  Achmed." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  no.  But  what  does  that 
mean?  Achmed  is  an  Arab,  and  an 
Arab  never  tells  the  truth." 

"Well,  au  revoir,  madame." 

"M'sieu  is  going  to  bed  already? 
And  just  as  I  have  brought  the 
lamp!" 

"  No,  I  am  going  for  a  stroll  to  the 
village.  Leave  the  lamp.  I  shall 
soon  be  back  to  drink  another  bottle 
of  wine." 

"M'sieu    is    too    good.       But    is 

88 


m'sieu    armed?     It    is    not    safe    to 
wander  at  night  without  arms." 

Grimly  Sir  Claude  looked  at  her, 
pulling  out  of  one  of  his  pockets  the 
muzzle  of  a  revolver. 

"It's  all  right,  madame." 
"Bien!    Bien!    Aurevoir,  m'sieu." 
"Au  revoir,  madame." 
He  walked  away  in  the  darkness. 
The  landlady  stood  under  the  vine 
looking  after  him. 

"  What  has  he  ?"  she  said  to  herself. 

She   had   noticed   that   a   change 

had  come  over  her  guest  while  she 

had  been  talking,  that  his  air  of  calm 

Vy       satisfaction,  peculiar  to  the  success- 

\     ful  hunter  full  fed  after  a  long  day's 

{&  sport,  had  given  place  to  a  moody 

\  anxiety,  a  restlessness  that  betokened 

_^     an  altered  mood. 

^.,      "  What  has  he,  this  monsieur  ?"  she 
repeated  to  herself. 

The   wind   from   the   desert   blew 
strongly  among  the  vine  leaves 

~^=r^     80 


above  her  head,  and  the  lamp  flame 
flickered  uneasily. 

Behind  the  salt  mountain  there 
grew  slowly  a  pale  light  that  heralded 
the  coming  of  the  moon. 


VIII 


SIR  CLAUDE  walked  through  the 
darkness  towards  the  village.  As 
he  went,  treading  softly  on  the  dry 
and  sandy  road,  he  thought  of  the 
prophecy  of  the  astrologer  in  Paris, 
he  seemed  to  see  the  thin  red  lines 
of  meticulous  writing: 

"  Danger  d'une  grande  perte  —  la 
plus  grande  perte  possible." 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  young 
Spahi,  sitting  by  the  small  table  -in 
the  hotel  dining-room,  and  smiling 
gently  as  he  cracked  the  walnut  with 
his  fingers  and  drew  out  the  kernel 
that  nestled  within.  And  then  he 
thought  of  Achmed. 

Achmed  was  a  mighty  hunter,  and 


had  won  Sir  Claude's  enthusiastic 
admiration.  Tall,  lithe,  one-eyed, 
with  long,  yellow  teeth  shaded  by  a 
thin,  wiry,  black  mustache,  he  was 
not  beautiful  to  look  upon.  But  he 
knew  his  business  and  took  a  pleasure 
in  it.  He  had  been  eager  for  these 
sporting  expeditions.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  too  eager. 

The  landlady  of  the  auberge  had 
an  influence.  She  had  infected  Sir 
Claude  with  her  own  distrust  of  these 
desert  men.  Of  his  wife  he  was 
thinking  now,  with  the  anxious,  pro- 
tective sentiment  of  the  strong,  lov- 
ing man;  of  himself  with  an  angry 
bitterness.  How  could  he  have  left 
her  alone,  without  even  her  maid,  in 
an  inn  lost  in  the  wilderness,  while  he 
was  gratifying  his  selfish  lust  for 
tsport?  The  loneliness  of  the  desert 
^around  him,  the  darkness,  the  keen 
?wind  against  his  brown  cheeks  roused 
in  him  a  sort  of  fury  against  himself. 


The  cosey  little  hostelry  in  the  g< 
presented  itself  to  his  imagination  as 
a  cut-throat,  desolate  shanty.  And 
there,  among  wild,  treacherous  people 
who  would  slit  any  one's  throat  for  a 
few  sous,  he  had  left  the  whimsical, 
fair-haired  little  creature  he  adored 
alone  to  face  the  night. 

He  hurried  on.  And  again  he 
thought  of  Achmed  and  of  the  Spahi, 
connecting  them  together  in  his  mind. 

Achmed  had  been  very  eager  for 
him  to  stay  at  El-Akbara,  had  urged 
him  repeatedly  to  remain  for  a  long 
time,  had  painted  in  glowing  colors 
the  wonders  of  the  region,  and  had 
spoken  of  Beni-Mora  as  a  place  for 
invalids  and  old  women,  intolerable 
to  men.  He  had  read  at  a  glance, 
Arab  fashion,  the  character  of  Sir 
Claude,  and  had  played  upon  it  with 
a  subtle  cunning.  Had  he  not  ?  But 
all  this  might  have  been  merely  in 
order  that  the  guide  might  pocket  Sir 


Claude's  money.  That  would  be  rea- 
son enough  for  his  persuasion. 

"P'r'aps  it's  all  rot!"  said  Sir 
Claude  to  himself,  resorting  to  his 
favorite  phrase. 

Nevertheless,  he  hurried  on  till 
he  came  to  the  first  earth  houses  of 
the  village.  Their  doors  of  palm 
were  shut.  Here  and  there,  above 
these  shut  doors,  the  skulls  of  camels 
grinned.  Through  the  eye-sockets 
strings  of  red  pepper  were  hung, 
la  Upon  the  flat  roofs  lean  white,  or 
|  yellow,  dogs  ran  to  and  fro,  bending 
down  their  heads  and  barking  furious- 
ly at  the  stranger  as  he  passed. 

Again  Sir  Claude  was  conscious  of 
the  savagery  of  this  land,  and  was 
stabbed  by  remorse  for  his  selfish 
carelessness.  Like  many  men  who 
are  not  clever,  he  was  inclined  either 
to  minimize  or  to  exaggerate  things. 
He  had  thought  nothing  of  leaving 
P?  his  wife  alone  for  a  night.  Now  he 


thought  too  much  of  it.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  monstrous  dereliction  of 
duty. 

A  shadow  stole  out  from  among  the 
blind  and  shadowy  houses  and  padded 
softly  after  him  on  bare  feet.  He 
turned  sharply,  his  hand  on  his  re- 
volver. 

"What  d'  you  want?"  he  said,  in 
French. 

The  shadow  stopped  and  gazed  at 
him  steadily,  with  glittering  eyes 
above  which  a  hood  was  drawn  for- 
ward hiding  the  head. 

Sir  Claude  repeated  his  question, 
but  got  no  answer. 

"Here,  you  come  along  with  me!" 
he  exclaimed.     "I   won't   have  you  /jfy 
behind."  f^f 

*        i 

He  made  an  explanatory  gesture.  //  /./ 
The  shadow  understood  it  and  quiet- ; 
ly  obeyed.     Evidently  comprehend-  M1 


ing  why  the  stranger  was  there,  itr.a 
guided   him    down    a   narrow   alley,) 


across  a  runlet  of  water,  and  into  an 
open  space,  a  sort  of  Arab  place,  orj 
piazza,  on  the  farther  side  of  which- 
lights  shone  from  a  native  cafe  maure. 
Here,  squatting  upon  the  floor,  among 
,a  crowd  of  hooded  men,  was  Achmed 
with  a  coffee-cup  beside  him,  intent 
on  playing  draughts. 

When  he  saw  his  master  he  in- 
stantly rose  with  a  smile,  pushed  his 
companions  away  without  ceremony, 
and  invited  Sir  Claude  to  come  in  and 
sit  down  on  an  earthen  divan.  But 
Sir  Claude  had  no  mind  for  pleasure. 

"Come  out,  Achmed!"  he  said, 
standing  rigid  in  the  low  doorway. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
'  Achmed  seriously  saluted  his 
friends,  swung  a  fold  of  his  burnous 
over  his  left  shoulder,  picked  out  his 
pair  of  yellow  slippers  from  a  medley 
against  the  wall,  and  gently  stepped 
across  to  Sir  Claude  and  followed  him 
out  into  the  night. 


The  shadow  glided  after  them. 

"Here,  I  say,"  said  Sir  Claude, 
irritably.  "Get  rid  of  this  fellow. 
Give  him  something — this. ' '  He  held 
out  a  franc.  "And  tell  him  to  be 
off." 

Achmed  obeyed,  and  the  shadow 
evaporated  into  the  darkness. 

When  they  were  alone,  walking 
back  towards  the  auberge,  Sir  Claude 
began : 

"How  long  would  it  take  to  get 
back  to  El-Akbara?" 

"El-Akbara,  m'sieu!  But  it  is  im- 
possible." 

"Answer  my  question.  How  long 
would  it  take?" 

"If  we  start  early  to-morrow, 
^m'sieu,  at  sunrise — 

"  I  don't  mean  to-morrow.  I  mean 
^.to-night." 

"  I  do  not  know,  m'sieu.  One  does 
„._  not  make  such  a  journey  at  night  in 
Y~liig.the  desert  with  a  stranger." 


"With  a  stranger?  What  differ- 
ence does  that  make  ?" 

"A  rich  stranger  would  not  be  safe 
at  night  in  the  desert.  I  am  poor. 
I  have  nothing — nothing."  He  flung 
out  his  arms  in  a  large,  despairing 
gesture,  keeping  his  one  eye  fixed 
steadily  on  Sir  Claude.  "Therefore, 
I  can  go  where  I  will.  If  monsieur 
wishes  me  to  return  to-night  to  El- 
Akbara,  to  take  a  message  to  madame, 
I  will  go,  though  the  mules  are  tired. 
>But  if  monsieur  asks  me  to  accom- 
pany him,  I  dare  not.  For  if  an  evil 
•chance  came  to  monsieur  in  my  com- 
pany, no  rich  stranger  would  take 
[me  as  guide  any  more.  I  should  be 
^ruined.  I  should  fall  into  the  misery. ' ' 

Sir  Claude  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
[The  guide's  assertions  seemed  rea- 
sonable. But  Sir  Claude  remem- 
bered the  landlady's  words,  that 
kAchmed  would  do  anything  for  a  few 
.francs. 


"And  what  if  I  paid  you  well?" 
he  said.  "What  if  I  gave  you  a 
hundred  francs?" 

"Monsieur  says — ?" 

"Suppose  I  gave  you  a  hundred 
francs  to  come  with  me  now,  to- 
night, back  to  El-Akbara!  Wouldn't 
you  come?" 

"Monsieur,  I  dare  not  be  respon- 
sible. If  any  harm — " 

"What — has  Benchaalal  paid  you 
more,  then?"  exclaimed  Sir  Claude. 

He  scarcely  knew  why  he  said  it, 
why  the  ugly,  the  hideous  surmise 
abruptly  started  into  his  mind.  In- 
deed, it  was  only  a  wild  guess  that  he 
was  making,  moved  by  something 
uneasy  in  Achmed's  obstinacy,  some- 
thing that  suddenly  suggested  to  Sir 
Claude  that  the  Arab  was  balancing 
two  offers,  or  was  comparing  the 
merits  of  two  clients — testing,  as  it 
were,  the  capacities  of  their  respec- 
tive purses.  Sir  Claude  did  not  often 


show  intuition,  but  to-night  there  was 
unusual  tension  on  his  nerves.  Some- 
thing in  his  heart  seemed  to  play 
upon  his  intellect,  to  wake  it  up  into 
a  quickness  that  was  not  normal. 

"  Benchaalal,  monsieur  ?"  said  Ach- 
med.  "Who  is  that?" 

"  You  damned,  deceitful  rascal,  you 
know  well  enough!  Benchaalal,  the 
Spahi,  the  officer  from  Algiers,  who  is 
staying  at  the  inn  at  El-Akbara." 

Convicted  of  deception,  Achmed, 
with  perfect  composure,  left  that 
question  and  inquired: 

"And  why  should  Benchaalal  give 
me  money?" 

Sir  Claude  opened  his  lips  to  an- 
swer, but  he  said  nothing.  What 
could  he  say  to  a  low-born  Arab? 
Even  if  his  wild  surmise  were  true — 
and  why  should  it  be  true?  —  he 
could  not  express  it,  could  not  even 
hint  at  it.  The  landlady  of  the  inn 
had  roused  in  him  fear  and  suspicion 


and  condemnation;  fear  for  his 
suspicion  of  all  Arabs,  especially  of 
Benchaalal  and  of  Achmed,  con- 
demnation of  himself.  But  he  must 
keep  silence.  Yet  the  complete  com- 
posure of  Achmed  did  not  allay  but 
*  added  to  his  mistrust.  He  felt  posi- 

j 

5  tive  that  he  had  been  persuaded  to 
\  these  long  sporting  expeditions,  to 
this  night  away  from  El-Akbara,  for 
reasons  quite  unconnected  with  ga- 
zelle and  Barbary  sheep. 

They  had  come  out  of  the  village 
now,  and  were  in   the   desert   close 
to  the  auberge.    The  moon  was  just 
|  showing  its  edge  above  the  cone  of  the 
|  salt  mountain  and  lifting  the  black- 
jf  ness    from    the    waste.     Under    the 
vine  the  little  light  of  the  lamp  shone, 
showing  the  immobile  figure  of  the 
old  Frenchwoman  watching  for  their 
return. 

Sir    Claude    made    no    reply    to 
Achmed's    question,    but    when    he 


reached  the  auberge  he  suddenly  said 
to  Achmed. 

"Now,  you  just  tell  madame  and 
me  why  you  said  to  madame  that 
Benchaalal  was  not  staying  at  El- 
Akbara!" 

"  Monsieur,  I  did  not  say  so !  How 
could  I  when  Benchaalal  is  there?" 

Sir  Claude  turned  to  the  landlady, 
who  was  looking  surprised  and  very 
curious. 

"Didn't  you  assure  me,  ma- 
dame—  ?"  he  began. 

But  the  landlady  interrupted  him. 

"Monsieur  may  talk  all  night,  and 
all  the  nights  of  the  year,  but  he  will 
never  have  reason  of  an  Arab." 

She  spread  out  her  hands  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"C'est  une  sale  race!"  she  whis- 
pered into  Sir  Claude's  ear. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  staring  at 
the  sand,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
1  The  moonlight  grew.  Its  light  de- 


cided  him.     He  lifted  up  his  head 
with  a  jerk  of  his  chin. 

" Go  and  get  the  mules!"  he  said  to 
Achmed.  "Go!" 

The  guide  stared  at  him  for  a 
minute,  then  evidently  realized  that 
there  was  no  appeal  from  that  com- 
mand, and  disappeared  through  the 
doorway  of  the  auberge  to  the  inner 
court,  where  the  beasts  were  stabled. 

The  landlady  looked  amazed. 

"  Monsieur  is  not  going  ?  But  it  is 
not  possible!  Monsieur — 

"Look   here,    madame,"    said    Sir 
Claude,    sitting   down   by   the   little 
table,  on  which,  by  the  lamp,  was  al- 
ready set  the  bottle  of  wine  which 
he  had  promised  to  drink  when  he 
returned   from   the   village.      "Look/ 
here — you've  been  telling  me  about  // 
the    Arabs!     I    don't    know    them.^ 
I'm  a  stranger  here.      I  come 
England,  where  you  can  take  a  man's 
word,    and    trust 


pretty  nearly  anywhere  without  being  r 
afraid  of  their  being  insulted.      Now  p 
you  tell  me!     Sit  down,  madame!" 

The  landlady  sat  down  opposite  to  » 
him.  The  nickering  light  from  the 
.jlamp  fell  across  her  wrinkled,  in- 
telligent face,  and  brightened  the 
eyes  which  were  fixed  intently  upon 
her  guest. 

"  And  you  tell  me  !  I've  got  a  wife, 
madame,  a  little  thing,  young,  a  girl 
almost  she  is,  and  about  the  prettiest 
woman  in  England.  I've  got  her  out 
here  in  Africa." 

"Where  is  she,  monsieur?" 

"At  the  inn  at  El-Akbara.  This 
chap,  this  Benchaalal,  is  there.  I've 
seen  him.  I  saw  the  damned  fellow 
the  first  night  we  got  there.  Now, 
what  should  he  be  staying  on  day 
after  day  for,  instead  of  going  to  his 
home,  to  his  damned  mud  hut  in  the 
desert?  And  why  should  Achmed 
deny  to  you  that  he  was  there,  and 


104 


1\ 


^ 

w 
\ 


pretend  to  me  that  he  had  never 
heard  of  him,  till  I  showed  that  I 
knew  ?  And  why  should  Achmed  get 
me  away  from  the  inn  every  day,  and 
persuade  me  to-night  to  be  here, 
leaving  my  wife  alone  among  a  lot  of 
scoundrels  ?  Don't  you  think  there's 
something  up,  madame  ?  Don't  you 
think,  if  you  were  me,  you'd  get  back 
to  your  wife  —  yes,  get  back  to  her 
even  if  the  mules  hadn't  six  legs  to 
go  upon  between  them?" 

He  struck  his  big  hand  upon  the 
table  and  made  the  bottle  jump  and 
the  lamp  sway  and  shiver.  The  land- 
lady  pursed  her  lips,  put  up  the  mid- 
die  finger  of  her  right  hand  to  her 
chin  and  took  it  away  again. 

"So,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "So 
Benchaalal  is  at  El-Akbara!  I 
thought  as  much." 

"Why?"  said  Sir  Claude,  sharply. 

Everything  made  him  uneasy  and 
suspicious  to-night. 


"Something  in  Achmed's  manner 
when  I  asked  him  and  he  denied  it. 
And  yet  he  lies  well,  like  all  the 
Arabs.  But  there  was  a  something, 
Sidi.  He  didn't  want  to  talk  of 
Benchaalal." 

Sir  Claude  leaned  over  the  table 
towards  her. 

"  You  think  there's  something  up  ?" 

"  Monsieur,  how  can  I  know  ?  But 
one  thing  I  know  is  this — if  I  had  a 
wife,  and  she  was  pretty  and  young, 
I  would  not  leave  her  alone  with 
Benchaalal  near  her,  no,  not  for  five 
minutes." 

Sir  Claude  got  up  and  turned  tow- 
ards the  doorway. 

"Achmedl"  he  roared.  "Venez! 
Depechez  vous!" 

"Voila!  Voila!"  called  a  voice  in 
I  the  distance. 

"Mind  you,  madame,"  said  Sir 
Claude,  turning  again  to  the  land- 
lady. "My  wife  would  as  soon  think 


of  tryin'  to  fly  as  of  havin'  anything 
to  do  with  one  of  these  damned  blacks. 
As  a  friend,  I  mean — as  a  guide,  of 
course!  What  are  you  smilin'  at?" 

"  Nothing,  m'sieu.  I  was  not  smil- 
ing. Monsieur  was  deceived  by  the 
lamplight.  There's  a  wind  getting 
up." 

She  moved  the  lamp  and  placed  it 
so  that  her  face  was  in  shadow.  Sir 
Claude  grunted.  He  felt  sure  he  had 
seen  an  ugly  smile  cross  the  woman's 
face,  and  suddenly  he  regretted  that 
he  had  established  a  sort  of  intimacy 
with  this  stranger.  He  had  been  too 
impulsive.  But  she  was  a  European 
and  a  woman,  and  then  it  was  from 
her  that  all  these  suspicions  had  come 
to  knock  upon  the  door  of  his  mind. 

"  Kindly  give  me  the  bill,  madame, ' ' 
he  said,  stiffly.  "And  put  down  that 
bottle  of  wine  and  the  room  for  the 
night.  I'll  pay,  of  course,  as  if  I 

stayed." 

107 


"Monsieur  is  too  good." 

She  went  softly  in-doors.  And  as 
soon  as  her  back  was  turned  she 
smiled  again  to  herself. 

"  Mon  Dieu !"  she  thought.  "  These 
men!  These  men  with  the  prettiest 
wives  in  the  world!  What  babies 
they  are !  What  babies !  Que  diable ! ' ' 

She  sat  down  by  the  light  of  a 
tallow  candle  at  her  greasy  table, 
and  made  out  a  good,  stiff  bill  for  the 
baby  to  pay. 

Achmed  was  a  long  time  getting  the 
mules,  but  at  last  he  was  ready,  the 
account  was  settled,  and  Sir  Claude 
was  in  the  saddle,  his  gun  slung  be- 
side him  and  his  revolver  ready  to  his 
hand. 

"Bon  soir,  madame,"  he  said, 
gruffly. 

"Bon  soir,  m'sieu.     Bon  voyage." 

He  rode  away  into  the  desert. 
jAchmed  prepared  to  follow,  mounted 
,on  the  second  mule,  and  leading  a 


108 


third  which  carried  the  dead  gazell 
and  Barbary  sheep. 

"Bon  soir,  Monsieur  Achmed!" 
said  the  landlady,  with  an  ironical 
emphasis  on  the  "Monsieur."  "Bon 
voyage!" 

The  guide  turned  his  eye  upon  her. 

"Cochon  femme!"  he  hissed  at  her. 
"Chamelle!  chamelle!" 

He  spat  at  her,  kicked  the  mule 
furiously  with  his  heels,  and  cantered 
away. 

"Sale  race!"  ejaculated  the  land- 
lady. 

She  blew  out  the  lamp,  picked  up 
the  full  wine  bottle,  tucked  it  under 
her  arm,  turned  and  went  into  the 
auberge,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

A  moment  later  there  was  the 
clang  of  the  great  bar  of  palm-wood 
falling  into  its  iron  socket. 


BBS 


^s^ 


IX 

THAT  was  a  long  and  weary 
journey  by  the  light  of  the 
moon.  At  first  Sir  Claude  kept  in 
front,  but  presently  he  got  off  the 
track,  and  Achmed  was  obliged  to 
ride  up  and  go  ahead  to  show  the 
way.  He  passed  Sir  Claude  morosely, 
without  looking  at  him,  and  took  the 
lead.  On  and  on  they  went,  always 
towards  the  dark  range  of  mountains 
that  showed  where  the  desert  ended. 
Sir  Claude  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 
The  mules  went  slowly.  Poor  beasts, 
they  were  really  tired  and  needed  a 
night's  rest.  Like  most  Englishmen, 
Sir  Claude  was  solicitous  for  all 


animals  that  did  him  service.  And 
more  than  once  his  conscience  prick- 
ed him  as  he  encouraged  his  mule 
with  voice  and  hand.  Achmed  did 
not  care.  The  mules  were  not  his, 
and  no  thought  of  an  animal's  suf- 
fering pained  his  imagination. 

Presently  he  began  to  sing  in  a 
whining,  plaintive  voice.  His  sulki- 
ness  was  subsiding  as  his  active, 
greedy  mind  began  to  work,  helped 
by  the  monotonous  motion  across  the 
plain.  The  stranger,  the  rich  Eng- 
lishman, had  offered  him  one  hun- 
dred francs  to  do  the  very  thing  he 
was  now  doing.  And  he  had  refused 
them.  But  he  had  refused  them  be- 
cause he  had  also  refused  to  make 
this  moonlight  flitting.  Well,  but/ 
now  he  was  making  it. 


"  Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa! 
Give  me  the  scorpion  that  I  may  eat! 
See  I  am  kneeling  at  thy  feet. 


,  To  the   sand,  to  the  sand  I  have  bowed? 

my  head,  i: 

In  the  fire  have  I  stood,  in  the  fire  that  j 

is  red. 
I  Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa!" 

„  Was  he  making  it  for  nothing? 
This  thought  disgusted  him.  While 
he  sang  he  was  planning  a  campaign, 
and  in  the  planning  his  fury  was  evap- 
orating. 

"Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa! 
Give  me  the  glass  that  I  may  eat! 
See  I  am  crouching  at  thy  feet. 
In  my  belly  the  living  scorpion  lies, 
In  my  heart  the  fierce  lust  for  paradise — 
Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa!" 

Never  yet  had  Achmed  been  "  best- 
ed" by  a  Roumi.  The  mere  thought 
of  such  a  catastrophe  stirred  all  his 
faculties.  Since  he  had  been  obliged 
to  undertake  this  journey,  he  must  be 
well  paid  for  it.  The  Roumi  should 
be  his  prey,  the  Roumi  who  had  mis- 
called him,  who  had  forced  him  to 


play  false  to  one  of  his  own  creed,  to 
one  of  his  own  people. 

"Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa! 
Give  me  the  knife  that  my  flesh  desires, 
As  it  longed  for  the  licking  tongues  of  the 

fires. 
The  glass  with  the  scorpion  has  gone  to 

rest; 

Give  the  curving  knife  to  my  naked  breast. 
Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa!" 

"Achmed!" 

Sir  Claude's  voice  shouted  from 
behind.  Achmed  stopped  his  sing- 
ing and  turned  half  round  upon  his 
mule. 

"Sidi?"  he  said,  politely. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  drive  me 
mad,  stop  that  cursed  whining!" 

"As  monsieur  wishes!" 

He  pulled  in  his  mule  and  Sir 
Claude  came  up  with  him. 

"What  the  devil  were  you  singing 
about?" 

"Monsieur,  I  was  singing  the  song 


The 
cruel 


of  the  Aissaoui,  they  who  stand  in  the 
fire  and  eat  scorpions  and  glass,  and 
drive  in  the  steel  behind  their  eyes, 
and  are  carried  with  their  naked 
breasts  upon  sharp  knives." 

Sir  Claude  twisted  his  body  in  a 
sort  of  heavy  shudder. 

' '  Cheerful  I"  he  ejaculated.     ' '  How 
long  shall  we  be?" 

"Monsieur,  I  cannot  tell, 
mules  are  weary.  This  is  a 
journey." 

He    sighed,    keenly   regarding   Sir 
'Claude  with  his  one  eye. 

Never  before,    after  hunting  all 
day,  have  I  been  made  to  travel 
'all  the  night." 

Sir  Claude's  mule  stumbled. 

"Hold  up!"  he  cried,  in  English. 

He  felt  a  certain  compunction. 

"It's  your  own  fault!"  he  growled. 

"My  fault,  monsieur?" 

Achmed's  voice  quivered  with  in- 
nocent astonishment. 


"Well,  if  it  isn't— " 

Sir  Claude  broke  off.  After  all,  he 
did  not  know  anything.  He  was 
only  suspicious.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  impossible  either  to  confirm  or 
to  destroy  his  suspicions  at  present. 
For  how  could  he  question  Achmed 
without  showing  that  he  was  anxious 
for  his  wife's  safety  ?  And  how  could 
he  let  a  "damned  black"  know  that 
he  had  ever,  in  his  thoughts,  connect- 
ed her  beauty  and  purity  with  the 
desires  of  a  Spahi  ? 

"You  shouldn't  have  put  me  up  to 
this  expedition,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  monsieur  had  never 
shot  gazelle." 

"No  more  I  had.  And  what  of 
that?" 

"All  the  English  gentlemen  who 
come  to  El-Akbara  want  to  shoot 
gazelle." 

Sir  Claude  began  to  wonder  whether  ( 
he  had  wronged  the  guide.     Now  that 

"S 


the  old  Frenchwoman's  influence  was 
removed,  he  felt  less  suspicious.  It 
was  she  who  had  alarmed  him  by  her 
diatribes  against  the  Arabs.  Perhaps 
she  was  a  silly  old  woman,  an  alarm- 
ist, even  a  liar.  But  then  Achmed 
had  lied  about  this  Benchaalal. 

"Monsieur  promised  me — " 

It  was  Achmed's  voice  with  its 
most  insinuating  intonation. 

"Eh?" 

"Monsieur  promised  me  a  hundred 
francs  if  I  protected  him  through  the 
night  to  El-Akbara." 

"Protected!" 

Sir  Claude  laughed. 

"Showed  me  the  way,  you  mean." 

"As  monsieur  chooses.  Monsieur 
will  keep  his  word?" 

"Well,  of  all  the  cheek!" 

Sir  Claude  had  dropped  into  English. 

"Monsieur  says  'of  course.'  He  is 
right.  All  the  English  keep  their 
a  promises.  They  are  a  great  nation." 

116 


'  '  I  never  promised  you  a  hundred 
francs,  but— 

"Yes,  monsieur?" 

"No,  I  can't  bribe  the  feller!" 
Sir  Claude  thought.  But  then  again 
came  to  him  the  fierce  desire  to  know 
"II  whether  Achmed  and  this  Spahi,  this 
Benchaalal,  had  plotted  together  to 
get  him  out  of  the  way. 

"Two  hundred  francs  would  be 
nothing  to  me  if  I  got  hold  of  a 
devoted  fellow,  of  a  fellow  who'd 
never  tell  me  a  lie  or  play  me  a  dirty 
trick,"  he  said,  almost  against  his  will. 

Achmed  's  eye  brightened.  The 
flame  of  avarice  shot  up  in  it.  But 
he  was  subtle,  and  only  replied  care- 
lessly : 

"The  good  master  makes  the  good 
servant." 

"And  Benchaalal?  Is  he  a  good 
master?"  asked  Sir  Claude. 

"  Monsieur,  Benchaalal  is  generous 
to  those  who  serve  him  —  they  say." 


"7 


"And  to  you?  Is  he  generous  to 
you?" 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  not  the  servant  of 
Benchaalal." 

"What?  Have  you  never  gone 
hunting  with  him?" 

"Oh  yes,  monsieur.  And  when 
Benchaalal  hunts  he  pays  well.  But 
he  pays  afterwards." 

There  was — or  so  Sir  Claude  thought 
— a  strong  significance  in  Achmed's 
voice  as  he  said  the  last  words.  His 
blood  grew  hot.  He  longed  to  strike 
the  guide,  to  knock  him  off  his  mule 
with  a  straight  blow  from  the  shoulder 
and  to  see  him  roll  over  in  the  sand. 

"  No,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  I'm 
damned  if  I  can  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  feller.  I'll  shift  for  myself. 
To-morrow  I'll  take  Kitty  away  to 
Beni-Mora.  She'll  be  glad  to  go. 
She  wanted  to  go  before.  I've  been 
a  selfish  beast,  but  there  can't  be  any 
harm  done,  even  if  that  beastly  black 

118 


has   been  up  to   some  devilry  with 
Achmed." 

And  Achmed  could  get  nothing 
more  out  of  him.  To  all  the  Arab's 
insinuating  remarks  he  returned  gruff 
monosyllabic  replies,  and  at  last  they 
rode  on,  hour  after  hour,  in  complete 
silence,  coming  ever  nearer  to  the 
black  wall  of  mountains  that  was 
their  destination. 

It  was  towards  dawn  when  the 
mules  set  their  feet  upon  the  firm, 
well-made  road  that  leads  to  the  three 
villages  of  the  oasis  of  El-Akbara. 
The  moon  was  waning,  the  wind  at 
their  backs  was  colder,  and  Sir  Claude, 
strong  though  he  was,  felt  an  unusual 
sense  of  fatigue  laying  hold  of  him, 
an  unusual  depression,  no  doubt  pure- 
ly physical,  stealing  upon  his  spirit, 
almost  like  a  stealthy  tide,  frigid  and/  ^ 
sadly  murmuring. 

"It's  a  devil  of  a  ride,"  he  said  to 
himself. 


Then  he  tried  to  pull  himself  to- 
\  gether,    staring    towards    the    rocky 
^  rampart  now  close  at  hand,  and  fix- : 
y  ing  his  thoughts  on  the  cosey  inn,  the ' 
comfortable  bed,  the  long  sleep  that 
awaited  him.     And  then  Kitty !    Soon 
he  would  see  her.     He  pictured  him- 
self stealing  into  her  room,  shading 
the  candle  with  his  hand,  and  looking 
down  on  her  slight  form,  her  pretty, 
fair  head  with  the  yellow  hair  spread 
out  over  the  pillow. 

He  bent  his  long  legs  backward 
and  struck  his  tired  mule  with  his 
heels.  The  poor  brute,  whose  trip- 
ping walk  had  long  since  degenerated 
into  an  uneasy  shamble,  started  for- 
ward in  a  sort  of  convulsive  canter, 
and  passed  Achmed,  who  was  hunch- 
ed up  and  seemed  to  have  fallen 
asleep  shrouded  in  his  burnous  with 
the  hood  drawn  closely  round  his  face. 
But  the  canter  only  lasted  a  moment. 
The  animal  was  nearly  dead  beat, 


like  its  rider,  and  subsided  almost  at 
once  into  its  former  tragic  pace. 

As  Sir  Claude  passed  him,  Achmed's 
one  eye  peered  sharply  forth  from  the 
shadow  of  the  hood,  and  when  his 
master's  mule  ceased  from  cantering, 
the  guide  sat  up  on  his  pack-saddle 
and  threw  off  his  elaborate  pretence 
of  sleep.  He  had  a  knife  hidden 
under  his  burnous,  and  now  he  laid 
his  hand  upon.it,  looking  steadily  at 
the  hind -legs  of  the  mule  in  front. 
He  wanted  to  get  into  El-Akbara 
before  Sir  Claude,  and  he  was  con- 
sidering how  to  accomplish  this  with- 
\out  waking  suspicion  in  the  Roumi. 
The  failure  of  his  attempt  to  whee- 
dle his  employer  into  parting  with 
the  hundred  francs  he  longed  for  ir- 
^_  ritated  him,  almost  infuriated  him. 
~-~-\  He  knew  that  he  would  not  get  the 
money,  and  he  hated  Sir  Claude  as 
an  Arab  hates  the  man  always  who 
i.%s=  baffles  his  greed.  Presently  he  drew 


his  knife  from  its  sheath  of  goat-skin, 
slipped  softly  from  his  mule,  and 
stealthily  approached  Sir  Claude's, 
keeping  his  eye  fixed  warily  on  its 
rider.  He  did  not  act  at  once,  but 
walked  for  two  or  three  minutes 
noiselessly  as  a  ghost  at  the  tail  of 
the  mule,  till  he  felt  certain  he  could 
do  his  deed  unobserved.  Then  he 
bent  down,  still  keeping  up  with  the 

L  beast,  the  hand  with  the  knife  in  it 
hung  for  a  second  above  the  sham- 
^bling,  hairy  legs,  came  nearer  to  them, 
came  close  to  them. 
"Achmed!" 
Sir  Claude  had  turned. 
"Achmed!     What  the  devil—?" 
"Stop,  monsieur!   There  is  a  stone 
in  his  hoof.     Let  me  get  it  out." 

Sir  Claude  pulled  up,  startled.    In- 
^stantly  the  Arab  lifted  one  of  the 
mule's  hoofs  from  the  road  and  with 
the    knife    pretended    to    extract    a 
stone,    holding   one,    snatched   from 


the  road,  up  a  second  later,  then 
flinging  it  away. 

"I  saw  he  was  going  lame,  mon- 
sieur. C'est  ca!" 

Calmly  he  returned  his  knife  to  its 
sheath. 

"I  didn't  notice  anything." 

Sir  Claude  was  looking  at  him  with 
keen  suspicion. 

"  Monsieur,  I  was  behind.  I  could 
see." 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"The  Arab  does  not  sleep  when  he 
is  protecting  his  master." 

Sir  Claude  grunted. 

"  Now  you  get  in  front  again." 

"As  monsieur  pleases." 

Achmed  jumped  again  onto  his 
mule,  and  began  to  lead  the  way  once 
more,  letting  the  led  mule  run  free 
with  its  load  of  gazelle  and  Barbary 
sheep. 

Foiled  in  his  attempt  to  lame  Sir 
Claude's  beast,  and  get  away  before 


Sir  Claude  had  time  to  notice  the 
accident  and  call  him  back,  he  urged 
his  mule  on  as  fast  as  possible,  and 
again  began  to  sing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

"Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa! 

On  the  curving  edge  of  the  steel  I  have 
lain, 

I  have  feared  not  the  touch  of  the  flicker- 
ing pain; 

Nor    the    sharp  -  toothed    glass,    nor    the 
poisoned  sting — 

Now  the  lash,  the  lash  to  my  bared  loins 

bring! 
Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa!" 

This  time  Sir  Claude  did  not  in- 
terrupt him.  For  the  three  villages 
were  at  hand,  houses  of  shadow  kept 
by  trees  of  shadow,  the  river,  flowing 
out  of  the  gorge  into  the  desert, 
lifted  its  murmur  to  their  ears,  the 
neared  its  end.  And  does 
"the  weary  traveller,  as  he  rides 
from  the  darkness  of  the  waste, 
,  instinctively  raise  his  voice  in  a  song, 


, 


or  in  a  cry  to  hail  the  friends, 
joys  that  await  him  ? 

Louder  and  louder  Achmed  sang. 
His  "Khali  Targa!"  went  out  to  the 
frowning  masses  of  the  towering  rocks 
and  was  echoed  back  by  them.  It  came 
from  the  desert  as  a  shout  of  warning 
to  two  night  wanderers  who,  close 
the  place  where,  by  day,  the  little  Arab 
sat  in  the  sun  and  played  his  capricious 
tune,  were  waiting  to  see  the  coming 
of  the  dawn  over  the  sandy  waste. 

The  Spahi  moved  as  the  distant 
cry  first  came  to  his  ears. 

"Is  it  the  Marabout?"  whispered 

H,  9  Lady  Wyverne,  laying  her  hand  on 

ffil  his  cloak. 

P\l      "Hush!" 

^         He  listened,  leaning  forward  tow- 

j|  ards  the  desert. 

"Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa! 
vxl»  More  hard  than  the  rocks  where  the  falcon 
5  flies 

Is  the  way  to  the  Prophet's  Paradise — " 

"S 


» 


"  It  is  the  voice  of  Achmed!" 
Lady  Wyverne  turned  white. 
"  But— it  can't  be !  Why,  they  are 

at  the  salt  mountain,  far  away  from 

here!" 

The  lash  on  my  loins  has  fallen  like  hail. 

See !     I  offer  my  shaven  head  to  the  nail ! 

Khali  Targa!     Khali  Targa!" 

"It  is  Achmed!  They  are  coming! 
Look!  I  see  mules  on  the  road!" 

"Save  me!     Where  am  I  to  go?" 

She  sprang  up  wildly. 

But  he  drew  her  down  again. 

"You  can't  get  away  now." 

"But  I  must!  I  must  be  in  the 
inn  when  my  husband  gets  there. 
He'll  go  straight  to  my  room!" 

She  struggled  with  him  and  began 
to  sob  hysterically. 

"Be  quiet!     Keep  still!" 

He  said  it  quite  gently.  Yet  she 
stopped  at  once  and  remained  mo- 
tionless, silent  as  one  under  the  in- 

R:  fluence  of  an  opiate. 
126 


"You  can't  get  back.  There's 
only  one  thing — slip  behind  the  rock! 
Crouch  down !  I  will  let  my  burnous 
drop  over  you!" 

Lady  Wyverne  crept  to  the  back 
of  the  rock  on  which  they  had  been 
seated  and  obeyed  him.  He  lifted 
his  great  burnous,  and  replaced  it 
loosely  on  his  shoulders,  letting  it  fall 
so  that  it  concealed  Lady  Wyverne 's 
head  and  shoulders.  Her  face  was 
pressed  against  his  back  and  his  body 
felt  her  troubled  breathing.  Then  he 
lit  a  cigarette.  His  attitude  was 
nonchalant.  His  dark,  keen  face 
was  perfectly  calm.  He  drew  the 
cigarette  smoke  into  his  throat  and 
let  it  out  rhythmically  through  his 
nostrils,  quietly  watching  the  mules 
as  they  came  nearer  and  nearer.  ^ 
In  his  long  eyes  there  was  the  him 
of  an  almost  sleepy  smile. 

Achmed's  song  had  died  away  now 
and  Benchaalal  knew  that  the  guide's)^ 


keen   sight   had   already  discovered 
him,  that   the   guide's   swift   intelli-f 
gence  had  gathered  from  his  motion-  j 
,*wless   attitude   that   the   singing   had' 
been   heard   and   that  he   was   pre- 
pared for  their  coming. 

Achmed's  mule  came"  up  level  with 
the  Spahi  and  passed  on.  Achmed 
made  no  sign  of  recognition,  but  he 
looked  at  Benchaalal  steadily,  then 
beyond  him  as  if  seeking  for  some- 
thing. Benchaalal  leaned  a  little 
backward,  letting  his  burnous  drop 
lower  over  the  crouching  woman. 
And  he  felt  that  she  shuddered 
against  his  body.  The  mule  that 
bore  the  victims  of  Sir  Claude's  gun 
followed.  Then  came  Sir  Claude. 
As  he  drew  up  the  first  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  struck  into  the  eastern 
sky  and  touched  the  houses  of  the 
red  village  upon  its  little  hill.  When 
Sir  Claude  saw  the  Spahi  he  started 
with  surprise,  and  involuntarily  pull- 


128 


ed  up  his  mule.  For  a  moment  the 
two  men  stared  at  each  other;  the 
Englishman  with  a  sort  of  hard  in- 
quiry and  suspicion,  the  Arab  with 
a  sleepy  languor  that  told  nothing 
of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  Al- 
ways he  drew  the  cigarette  smoke 
into  his  throat,  and  let  it  out  through 
his  finely  cut  nostrils. 

"Bonjour,"  said  Sir  Claude,  at 
last,  in  the  rough  voice  of  a  weary 
man. 

"Bonjour,  monsieur,"  said  the 
Spahi,  softly.  "You  have  had  good 
sport,  I  see." 

\The  crouching  woman  was  trem- 
bling violently.      Benchaalal   leaned 
still    farther    back.     He    feared   lest 
the  rider  should  see  the  movement 
=r_    of    the    folds    of    his    burnous,    and 
B55^w  secretly  cursed  the  timidity  of  women. 
"You   are   out   early,    monsieur," 
_         said  Sir  Claude. 

"We    Spahis    are    accustomed    to 


r» 


early  rising,  monsieur.  I  seldom 
sleep  much  after  three  o'clock.  I  like 
to  see  the  sun  come  up  over  the 
desert." 

He  thought  he  saw  Sir  Claude's 
steady,  strained  eyes  glance  back- 
ward as  Achmed's  had  done.  But 
he  was  not  sure.  The  smoke  wreaths 
of  his  cigarette,  curling  up  towards 
the  pale  sky,  in  which  the  last  stars 
had  not  yet  faded,  might  have  tricked 
his  acute  vision. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
Sir  Claude  lifted  his  right  hand,  laid 
it  down  on  the  mule's  neck,  and 
moved  as  if  he  were  about  to  dis- 
mount. Then  he  seemed  to  change 
his  mind,  for  he  suddenly  struck  the 
animal  with  his  heels,  set  his  lips  to- 
gether, and  rode  on  without  another 
| word.  The  patter  of  hoofs  on  the 
hard  road  made  a  diminuendo. 

"Don't  move!"  whispered  the 
Spahi,  without  stirring. 


The  patter  of  hoofs  died  quite  away. 

"Not  yet!"  he  said,  aloud.  "Not 
till  I  tell  you." 

He  heard  again  the  sound  of  con- 
vulsive, half-strangled  sobbing.  Yet 
even  now  his  face  did  not  change, 
even  now  he  continued  quietly  to 
smoke. 

The  gorge  took  the  little  cavalcade. 
It  was  lost  in  the  fastnesses  of  the 
rocks.  Then  the  Spahi  sprang  up, 
lifted  his  cloak,  and  set  free  the 
terrified  woman. 

"  Does  he  know  ?     Did  he  see  me  ?" 

She  could  scarcely  get  the  words 
out.  Her  face  was  stained  with 
tears  and  flushed  with  red  in  patches. 

"Who  can  tell?" 

"He'll  go  to  my  room!  Oh,  God, 
he'll  go  to  my  room!" 

"Who  can  tell?    He  is  tired, 
sits  like  a  sack  on  the  mule." 

"He'll  go!  What  am  I  to  do? 
What  am  I  to  do?" 


Benchaalal  stretched  his  arm  out 
towards  the  spaces  of  the  desert. 

"Will  you  come  with  me — there?" 

"He'll  find  my  room  empty!  He'll 
come  back!" 

The  Spahi  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said,  coldly: 

"Go  and  wash  your  face  in  the 
river,  madame.  And  then  we  can 
speak  together.  At  present  it  is  use- 
less." 

Lady  Wyverne  stared  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  she  did  not  comprehend 
what  he  had  said.  But  the  tears 
dried  on  her  cheeks.  And  after  an 
instant  she  turned  from  him  obe- 
diently, went  to  the  river-bank,  and 
bent  down  over  the  running  water. 


X 


THE  sun  was  up,  bathing  the 
desert  in  its  beams,  but  the 
gorge  of  El  -  Akbara  was  still  in 
shadow  when  Lady  Wyverne,  alone, 
stole  along  the  road  by  the  Judas- 
trees,  passed  through  the  gateway 
in  the  wooden  fence,  and  entered  the 
court-yard  of  the  inn.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  looked  furtively  around 
her,  then  upward  swiftly  to  the  win- 
dow of  her  husband's  bedroom.  It 
was  shut  and  the  green  persiennes 
hid  the  glass.  She  crossed  the  court- 
yard quickly  and  tried  the  front  door. 
The  handle  of  it  seemed  to  her  to 
turn  almost  of  itself.  She  under- 
stood why  when,  as  she  pushed  the 

133 


door  back,  she  saw  Achmed  standing 
in  the  aperture.  He  stared  at  her 
with  his  one  eye,  but  said  noth- 
ing, and  she  hurried  past  him  soft- 
ly, up  the  stairs,  and  into  her  bed- 
room. 

She  had  dreaded  finding  Sir  Claude 
there.  But  there  was  no  one.  She 
gently  locked  the  door  and  sat  down 
on  the  little  chair  by  the  bed. 

Had  her  husband  visited  her  room 
or  not? 

That  was  the  vital  question  she  was 
asking  herself.  He  must  have  been 
terribly  tired  by  his  long  ride  across 
the  desert  and  the  day's  hunting. 
He  must  have  been  longing  to  sleep. 
Nevertheless,  knowing  him  as  she  did, 
she  felt  almost  certain  that  he  would 
not  have  gone  to  bed  without  trying 
her  door.  And  she  had  left  it  un- 
locked when  she  went  out  to  see  the. 
sunrise  with  Benchaalal.  She  had 
been  reckless,  feeling  perfectly  safe 


in  the  thought  that  Sir  Claude  was 
miles  away. 

Why  had  he  come  back  ? 

Mechanically  she  began  to  undress. 
Her  hands  trembled,  and  she  was  not 
accustomed  to  undressing  herself ;  but 
at  last  she  was  ready  for  bed,  and 
she  stepped  in  and  drew  the  clothes 
up  to  her  chin. 

Why  had  he  come  back?  It  was 
his  own  idea  to  stay  away  all  night. 
She  had  never  suggested  such  a 
thing,  had  never  even  thought  of  it. 
When  she  had  read  the  note  telling 
her  he  was  going  to  sleep  out,  she  had 
been  full  of  a  sort  of  ironical  pity  for 
his  folly,  for  his  short-sightedness. 

And  now  he  had  come  back,  travel- 
ling through  the  night.  / 

She  could  not  understand  it.  // 

Presently,  as  she  lay  quietly  there, ^ 
and  her  husband  did  not  come,  and, 
she  heard  no  movement  in  his  room,  Ij 
she  began  to  think  that  perhaps  in; 


her  terror  she  had  been  unreasonable,  r 
She  had  lost  her  head,  or  nearly  lost  j^^ 
it.     But  for  the  self-possession  of  the  ?    * 
Spahi  she  would  certainly  have  been' 
discovered  by  her  husband. 

And  if  she  had  been  discovered  ? 

She  tried  to  think  of  the  situation 
calmly,  without  hysteria.  If  she  had 
been  discovered  what  would  "  Crum- 
pet" have  said,  have  done?  If  he 
knew  anything  now,  what  would  he 
say  or  do  ? 

She  had  always  been  accustomed 
to  rule  him.  He  had  always  given 
in  to  all  her  whims.  They  had  often 
been  foolish,  but  they  had  been  inno- 
cent. She  had  flirted.  Many  men  had 
made  a  sort  of  love  to  her.  But  it  had 
been  a  very  tame  business.  It  had  not 
been  even  a  playing  with  fire.  There 
had  never  been  any  fire  to  play  with. 

But  where  Benchaalal  was  there 
was  fire,  there  was  always  fire. 

Sir  Claude  had  never  minded  her 
136 


little  flirtations.  But  he  had  felt  sure 
of  her.  Somehow  Lady  Wyverne, 
never  having  really  cared  a  straw  for 
any  of  the  men  who  had  admired  her, 
had  never  dreamed  that  Sir  Claude 
could  mind  their  attentions,  even 
their  occasional  ardor.  The  ardor 
had  always  been  English,  and  her 
own  consciousness  of  her  own  cold- 
ness had  preserved  her  from  either 
fear  or  any  sense  of  guilt. 

But  now  she  was  afraid,  both  of 
herself  and  of  her  husband.  And 
she  felt  guilty,  not  because  of  any 
evil  act  that  she  had  committed,  but 
because  of  thoughts  that  had  passed 
through  her  mind,  of  feelings  that 
had  stirred  in  her  heart. 

She  knew  her  husband  through 
and  through,  and  she  knew  his  in- 
tensely  English  nature.  All,  or  near- 
ly all,  the  prejudices  of  the  average 
Englishman  were  his,  cherished  chil- 
sfe--.  dren  of  his  not  clever  brain. 


She  divined  how  Sir  Claude  would 
inevitably  think  of  Africans.  Very 
much  as  the  average  American  re- 
gards the  nigger  he  would  regard  any 
African;  whether  Egyptian,  Touareg, 
Kabyle,  Arab,  Negro,  or  Moor.  They 
would  be  all  the  same  to  him — 
' '  blacks , "  or  "  damned  blacks . "  Thus 
he  would  sum  them  up.  The  idea 
that  his  wife  could  enter  into  any 
close  friendly  relations  with  one  of 
them,  could  flirt  with  one  of  them, 
kcould  allow  one  of  them  openly  to 
f>  admire  her,  even  to  make  love  to 
her,  would  never  occur  to  him.  But 
if  it  were  forced  upon  him;  if  it  were 
proved  to  him  that  his  wife  had 
walked  with  an  Arab  at  night,  had 
allowed  him  to  admire  her,  had  ad- 
mired him,  found  him  interesting, 
even  more — fascinating,  strangely  at- 
tractive! What  then? 

Suddenly  Lady  Wyverne  saw  her 

husband   in   a   new   light,    saw   un- 
138 


chained  in  him  a  new  being.  The 
Englishman  is  often  slow  to  wake  up, 
but  when  he  does  wake  up  he  is  not  a 
man  to  trifle  with.  And  Sir  Claude 
was  very  primitive.  At  certain  junc- 
tures in  life  the  primitive  man  is  the 
most  dangerous,  the  most  terrible  of 
all  men.  He  rushes  ahead  with  the 
blindness  of  a  machine. 

Lady  Wyverne  shuddered  in  her 
bed. 

But  then  she  told  herself  that  Sir 
Claude  did  not  know.  If  he  had 
known  he  would  have  come  out  of  ^ 
the  hotel  to  seek  her,  or  he  would 
have  been  waiting  in  her  room  to 
denounce  her. 

But  why  had  he  come  back? 

His  return  made  her  think  that  he 
must  have  some  suspicion,  that  some- 
thing must  have  occurred  to  take  his 
mind  from  Barbary  sheep  and  fix  it 
upon  a  different  subject. 

She  lay  still  for  a  long  time.    Pres- 


ently  she  heard  voices  below.  The 
Arab  servants  were  about.  Despite 
her  closed  shutters  she  realized  that 
the  sun-rays  had  reached  the  gorge. 
The  day  was  come,  the  full  day. 
And  she  must  face  it. 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  Eight 
o'clock.  She  got  up,  rang  for  hot 
water. 

An  Arab  left  it  at  her  door  with  a 
loud  single  knock.  When  he  had 
gone  she  opened  the  door  and  took 
it  in.  Her  husband's  door  was  shut. 
Was  he  in  the  hotel,  or,  having  found 
her  room  empty,  was  he  out  seeking 
her? 

She  wondered.  She  longed  vehe- 
mently to  know. 

When  she  was  dressed  she  made  a 
strong  mental  effort,  opened  the  win- 
dow, and  stepped  out  onto  the  ve- 
^randa.  As  she  did  so  her  husband 
issued  from  his  room  and  met  her. 

"Crumpet!"  she  cried  out. 


Her  movement  of  surprise  was 
natural.  She  was  really  surprised, 
startled.  She  caught  hold  of  the 
balustrade  and  steadied  herself. 

"You  are  back!" 

"Yes,  "he  said. 

"  But  you  told  me  you  were  going 
to  sleep  out !  Where  was  it  ?  At  some 
place  or  other  where  there's  gazelle.  "[HH 

"I  know.  But  the  inn  was  so 
beastly  that  I  came  back." 

"When?" 

"I  rode  pretty  near  all  night.  I 
got  in  at  dawn." 

"I— I  didn't  hear  the  mules." 
Ill      She  tried  to  speak  naturally  and 
18 HI  believed    that    she    succeeded.     But 
her  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  hus- 
band's face  with  an  intense  scrutiny. 

"You  must  have  been  sound 
asleep,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  I  must  have  been  sound 
asleep." 

"Let's  have  breakfast,"  he  said. 


X— 0*. 


So  he  had  not  been  to  her  room! 
For  a  moment  her  sense  of  relief  was 
immense.  She  went  nearer  to  him, 
intending  to  give  him  a  kiss.  But  he 
happened  to  turn  round  just  at  the 
moment  to  look  for  one  of  the  straw 
chairs  they  always  sat  in  when  they 
took  breakfast  or  tea  on  the  veranda. 
Evidently  he  had  not  noticed  her 
movement.  Or  had  he  seen  it  and 
wished  to — ? 

He  found  the  chair,  then  leaned 
iover  the  balustrade  and  shouted  for 
breakfast. 

"Are  you  tired?"  Lady  Wyverne 
said. 

"Yes,  a  bit." 

He  tipped  his  chair  back  till  two 
legs  were  off  the  floor,  then  let  them 
drop,  then  tipped  the  chair  back 
again. 

"It  was  a  longish  ride." 

"I — I  wonder  you  didn't  stay  at 

the  inn." 

149 


"It  was  beastly  dirty." 

She  forced  a  laugh.  Something  in 
his  manner  made  her  uneasy.  And 
then  he  had  not  kissed  her.  Nor 
had  he  once  pronounced  her  name- 
Kitty.  Generally  it,  or  its  abbrevia- 
tion, "Kit,"  was  forever  on  his  lips. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  afraid  of 
roughing  it,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  the  good  of 
being  uncomfortable  when  one  can 
be  comfortable." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  said. 

He  was  still  tipping  the  chair  to 
and  fro.  The  movement  irritated 
her  nerves.  She  looked  away. 

"Oh,  here's  breakfast!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

The  Arab  who  brought  it  was  the/ 
same   sleepy  -  looking   boy  who   h 
accompanied  Lady  Wyverne  on  her 
excursion  to  the  red  village.     He  ar- 
ranged  the  breakfast  carefully  and 


•t  gently,   but   very   slowly,    upon   the : 
wicker   tables.     Sir   Claude  watched  i 
him  with  an  air  of  acute  irritability 
'  that  was  almost  like  active  hatred. ' 

"What's   the   matter?"   asked   his 
_„  wife. 

"  These  infernal  blacks —  ' '  he  began. 
"There!  There!  That '11  do." 

He  suddenly  leaned  forward  and 
pushed  the  boy  roughly  away  from 
the  table.  The  boy  started,  cast  an 
angry  look  at  him,  and  went  off 
muttering  to  himself. 

"I  can't  stand  these  fellers!  Ver- 
min!" said  Sir  Claude,  with  a  sort  of 
irrepressible  passion. 

Lady  Wyverne  said  nothing.  It 
was  the  first  time  her  husband  had 
ever  behaved  like  this  in  her  presence. 
She  wondered  whether  he  was  only 
over -tired  or  whether  there  was  an- 
other reason  for  his  unusual  conduct. 
His  outburst  against  the  Arabs  made 

her  tremble  again  at  the  thought  of 
144 


her  imprudence.  She  felt  that  the 
knowledge  that  his  wife  had  coquet- 
ted— to  use  no  other  word — with  an 
Arab  surreptitiously  would  let  loose 
upon  her  a  new  man,  a  man  whom 
she  had  never  known  and  of  whom 
she  would  be  terrified.  But  he  could 
know  nothing.  If  he  did  he  would 
have  spoken,  have  acted  at  once. 
"Crumpet"  might  be  violent,  even 
terrible.  She  realized  that  now.  But 
surely  he  could  never  be  subtle. 

And  yet  she  could  not  quite  rid 
herself  of  uneasiness,  of  doubt.  He 
had  not  kissed  her.  He  had  not  yet 
called  her  by  her  name.  And  there 
was  surely  something  aloof  in  his 
manner,  a  detachment  from  her  that 
\vas  unusual. 

"What  about  to-day?"  she  asked, 

'"%.  making  a  strong  effort  to  seem  lively 

and  cheerful.     "Are  we  going  on  to 

Beni-Mora?" 

,^g^     He   busied   himself   with   an   egg, 


carefully  chipping  the  shell  away  from 
the  white. 

"  D'  you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked.  "  I 
wonder  if  this  egg's  fresh." 

"Oh,  they  always  are  here!" 

"  Dessay  it's  all  right.  D'  you  want 
to  go?" 

"Well,  I"  —  she  shot  a  glance  at 
him — "I  don't  mind.  But — haven't 
you  had  enough  of  Barbary  sheep  by 
this  time?" 

"  If  you're  bored  to  death  we'll  go, 

t  if  not  I  think  I  should  like  to 
have  just  one  more  shot  at  some- 
thing." 

He  spoke  very  deliberately,  with  a 
certain  dull  heaviness. 

"Yes,  the  egg's  all  right,"  he  add- 
ed, tasting  it. 

"  Very  well.  But  you're  surely  go- 
&ing  to  have  a  rest  to-day." 

"  Yes.  I  may  go  out  towards  sun- 
set." 

||     "Is  that  a  good  time?" 

146 


"I  may  sleep  out." 

Lady  Wyverne  started. 

"Well,  but  if  you  can't  stand  the 
inns!" 

"I  may  take  a  tent.  They've  got 
one  here." 

"Oh— won't  it  be  cold?" 

"  Take  plenty  of  blankets  and  you're 
all  right." 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 

After  some  minutes,  during  which 
he  ate  and  she  pretended  to  eat  in 
silence,  Sir  Claude  said: 

"  You're  not  bored,  are  you  ?  You 
don't  still  want  to  get  away?" 

"I  really  don't  care  what  I  do," 
she  replied,  carelessly,  "  so  long  as  we 
don't  settle  down  here  forever." 

"We  won't  do  that,"  he  said. 

They  had  finished  now,  and  he  got 
up  and  lit  a  cigar.  As  he  did  so 
Benchaalal  came  out  from  the  inn 
door  underneath  the  veranda,  walk- ; 

ed  slowly  across  the  court  and  down 

147 


the  road  towards  the  desert.  He  had 
on  his  scarlet  cloak,  which  floated  out 
majestically  as  he  walked.  He  did 
not  glance  up  at  them.  His  dark 
face  was  very  calm  and  tranquil,  and 
he  looked  like  a  man  perfectly  con- 
tented with  himself  and  all  the  world. 
Lady  Wyverne  only  glanced  at  him, 
but  Sir  Claude  watched  him  until  he 
was  lost  to  sight  at  a  bend  in  the 
road. 

"That's  a  fine  looking  chap!"  he 
said. 

"  I  think  the  Arabs  are  a  handsome 
set,"  Lady  Wyverne  answered. 

"  But  he's  the  most  striking  of  the 
lot.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Is  he?     I  dare  say." 

Instinctively  she  had  replied  eva- 
sively, with  an  elaborate  carelessness. 
•Scarcely  had  she  done  so,  however, 
rwhen  it  occurred  to  her  that  it  would 
mave  been  more  subtle,  more  really 

clever,    to    have    agreed    with    him 
148 


heartily.  She  was  always  accustom 
ed  to  speak  her  thoughts,  to  express 
her  whims  frankly  before  Crumpet. 
She  had  often  openly  raved  to  him 
about  other  men's  looks.  It  would 
have  seemed  far  more  natural,  far 
more  like  herself,  to  do  so  now.  But 
it  was  too  late.  Besides,  she  could 
not. 

"  I  spoke  to  the  feller  this  morning," 
resumed  Sir  Claude,  leaning  on  the 
balustrade  in  an  easy  attitude  and 
puffing  wreaths  of  smoke  away  into 
the  sun. 

"This  morning!"  Lady  Wyverne 
exclaimed,  with  a  careful  intonation 
of  astonishment.  "When?" 

Sir  Claude  took  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  smoothed  the  leaf  at  the 
end  with  his  finger. 

"When  I  was  riding  in." 

"He — he  was  up  already  at  that 
hour?" 

She  felt  like  an  actress  at  a  re- 


ft 

hearsal,  and  wondered  if  she  had  got 
her  tone  just  right. 

"He  was  out  in  the  desert,  sitting 
on  a  rock  near  the  river.  You  know 
that  rock  where  we  heard  that  boy 
playing — the  first  day." 

"Oh  yes.  What  an  extraordinary 
man!  What  was  he  doing  there? 
Meditating  on  eternity!" 

She  gave  a  little,  high-pitched  laugh. 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  was  doing. 
He  was  just  sitting  there  wrapped  up 
in  one  of  those  big  cloaks.  You  know 
the  things?" 

"Yes— I  know." 

"We  had  a  few  words  together. 
He  seems  a  decent  sort  of  chap." 

At  this  moment  a  sudden  impulse 
seized  Lady  Wyverne  to  tell  her  hus- 
band—  not  all,  certainly  not  that, 
but  something ;  that  she  had  spoken 
to  the  Spahi,  that  they  had  strolled 
together  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
inn — once;  something  of  that  kind. 


She  was  in  the  dark.  She  could  not 
divine  whether  Sir  Claude  knew  or 
suspected  something,  or  whether  he 
was  talking  in  complete  ignorance. 
For  once  her  husband  was  a  puzzle 
to  her,  and  she  began  to  respect  him. 
She  began  to  respect  him  but  she 
longed  to  read  him,  to  make  sure. 
And  she  longed  to  "play  for  safety," 
ingeniously. 

"Oh,  I  should  think  he  must 
be  quite  well  educated,"  she  began. 
"He's  an  officer.  At  least,  I  think 
some  one  said  so,  didn't  they?" 

"Ah." 

That  was   all   Sir   Claude   said  in 
reply,   but  it  made   Lady   Wyverne 
abruptly  aware  that  she  could  not 
tell  him  anything.     It  was  impossible. 
He  would  never  understand.     She  said  // 
to  herself  that  he  certainly  knew  noth-6  #5 
ing,  suspected  nothing.  She  would  be  a/Jjl 
fool  to  ' '  give  herself  away. ' '    Crumpet  jj 
never  saw  anything  unless  it  was  shown  | 


to  him.     It  was  all  right.     Only  her!" 
own    stupid    nerves    had    made   her  ,s 
?  think  that  possibly,  for  once,  he  was  i 
?j*  being  subtle,  even   crafty  with   her,  * 
that  he  was  playing  with  her,  testing 
her. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
this  morning?"  she  exclaimed,  brisk- 
ly, getting  up  from  her  chair. 

"  I  shall  go  down  and  see  about  the 
tent  for  to-night." 

"Then  you've  quite  decided 
now?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I've  quite  de- 
cided now." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  go  and  write  some 
letters." 

She  went  away  to  her  room.  When 
she  was  there  she  heard  her  husband's 
heavy  footstep  descending  the  wooden 
staircase. 

And  she  had  an  odd  fancy  that 
it  sounded  much  heavier  than 

usual. 

152 


But  of  course  he  was  tired  after 
being  up  all  night. 

All  the  morning  Lady  Wyverne 
wrote,  or  pretended  to  write,  letters. 
She  lunched  alone.  Sir  Claude  had 
gone  up  to  his  room  to  have  a  good 
sleep,  and  had  given  orders  that  he 
was  not  to  be  disturbed.  In  the 
afternoon  she  sat  alone  on  the  ve- 
randa reading  a  novel.  She  had  not 
seen  Benchaalal  again.  But  she  had 
seen  Achmed  go  down  the  road 
towards  the  villages.  He  returned 
about  half -past  one,  and  at  half-past 
two  Sir  Claude  emerged  from  his 

\room  dressed  for  hunting. 
"Have  you  had  a  good  sleep?"  she 
asked. 
"I'm  all  right,"  he  replied.     "As 
•gs-     fit  as  a  fiddle." 
^.      "Are  you  off  already?" 

"I   believe   so.     If   Achmed 's   got 
everything  onto  the  mules." 
"  I  must  come  down  to  see  you  start." 


"Oh,  don't  you  bother.  You  can 
see  us  from  up  here." 

"What  time  will  you  be  back  to- 
morrow?" 

"I  don't  know.  Depends  on  the 
sport.  I  shall  sleep  out  and  go  after 
the  sheep  at  dawn." 

"Good-bye,  old  boy,"  she  said. 

She  put  her  face  up  suddenly  to  his 
and  kissed  him. 

"Achmed!"  he  shouted  out,  harsh- 
ly. "Are  you  ready?" 

Voila !     Voila ! ' '  came  a  voice  from 
below. 

"Good-bye,"  Sir  Claude  said  to  his 
wife. 

He  turned  and  went  down  the 
stairs. 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  she  saw 
him   ride   away   with   quite   a   little 
r  cavalcade  of  laden  mules,  and  with 
three  Arabs,  including  Achmed. 

They  went  to  the  left,  away  from 
Ifthe  desert. 


Sir  Claude  and  Achmed  rode  side 
by  side  behind  the  others. 

They  seemed  to  be  talking  togeth- 
er with  some  animation  —  doubtless 
about  Barbary  sheep. 


XI 


AMONG  the  palm-trees  near  the 
red  village  that  day  there  had 
been  a  violent  scene  between  Ben- 
chaalal  and  Achmed.  The  guide  was 
in  the  Spahi's  pay,  and  had  been 
promised  a  sum  of  money  if  he  would 
persuade  Sir  Claude  to  spend  a  night 
at  the  salt  mountain. 

This  sum  of  money  Benchaalal  had 
refused  to  give  him.  The  abrupt 
return  of  Sir  Claude  and  the  guide 
had  infuriated  the  Spahi,  despite  his 
seeming  composure  during  the  inter- 
view by  the  river  at  dawn.  He  knew 
;how  delicately  balanced  are  the  emo- 
Itions  of  such  women  as  Lady  Wyv- 

erne;    creatures    of    caprice,    highly 
156 


strung,  changeable,  slaves  of 
nerves.  Carefully,  cleverly,  he  had 
been  creating  about  her  a  certain 
atmosphere,  in  which  he  moved 
against  a  mysterious  background  of 
desert,  strangely,  almost  magically, 
touched  with  the  romance  of  a  bar- 
barous and  brilliant  world.  He  had 
scarcely  seen  her  in  the  day.  He  had 
scarcely  wished  to  see  her.  By  night 
their  acquaintance  had  been  made, 
by  night  cemented.  The  towering 
rocks  had  cast  upon  their  fugitive 
intercourse  black  shadows,  the  moon- 
beams a  maze  of  silver.  The  river 
had  sung  to  them  a  nocturne.  The 
wind  from  the  sands  had  touched 
them  with  its  thrilling  fingers. 

And  the  Roumi-woman  had  been 
enticed. 

At  first  she  had  been  like  a  wilful 
child  breaking  bounds.  But  he  had 
carried  her  on  till  the  child  in  her, 
and  its  naughtiness,  was  merged  in 


157 


B|the  very  curious  woman ;  and  on  again 
till  the  curious  woman  became  the 
.dreaming  woman,  the  woman  with 
wonder  in  her  eyes.  Just  once  he 
had  shown  himself  in  sunlight,  and 
that  almost  meretriciously;  with  a 
crudeness  of  physical  strength  and 
determination,  with  a  swiftness  of 
skill,  with  a  certain  fierceness  that 
was  akin  to  the  blinding  sunshine. 
And  then  again  he  had  stepped  back 
into  the  darkness  and  called  again  out 
||of  the  night. 

And  the  Roumi-woman  had  been 
drawn  on,  like  the  child  by  the  Celes- 
tial's pigtail  in  the  story,  and  had 
come  very  near  to  the  hidden  cham- 

Jber  where  the  desire  of  her  lav  in 

J 

wait. 

Trampling  upon  this  delicate  fabric, 
which  the  Spahi  had  woven  thread 
by  thread,  had  come  the  hoofs  of  the 
mules. 

And    Benchaalal    cursed    Achmed 

158 


and  refused  to  give  him  a  sou  of  the 
promised  money. 

Lady  Wyverne's  terror  was  his  foe. 
He  felt  sure  of  that.  After  the  hu- 
miliation by  the  river's  bank,  when 
she  had  cowered  for  the  first  time  in 
hiding,  she  would  be  set  free  from  her 
dream.  That  was  certain.  Fantasy 
had  been  struck  upon  by  the  iron 
hammer  of  fact.  And  now  the  Spahi 
could  not  answer  for  the  Roumi- 
woman. 

So  he  was  furious,  and  he  let  loose 
his  fury  upon  Achmed  as  only  an 
Arab  can. 

From  their  altercation  Achmed 
had  gone  hot-foot  to  join  Sir  Claude 
on  his  camping-out  expedition.  Al- 
though  not  long  before  he  had  been 
livid  with  anger,  half  crazy  with 
baffled  greed,  he  was  now  apparent- 
ly  not  merely  calm  but  lively. 
rode  off  beside  his  employer  with  a 
smiling  face  and,  as  Lady  Wyverne 


had  seen  from  the  veranda,  talking) 
busily. 

The  love  of  money  in  an  Arab  is  a 
j^  passion  of  the  heart,  of  the  mind,  of' 
the  whole  being.  Trick  that  love,  dis- 
^-^,.  appoint  that  passion,  and  you  rouse  a 
demon  that  is  curiously  subtle,  that 
is  persistent  and  revengeful,  and  en- 
tirely without  scruple.  Benchaalal 
knew  that,  but  he  had  been  careless 
in  his  fury.  For  a  moment  he  had 
run  mad.  That  moment  had  given 
Achmed  over  to  Sir  Claude. 

Till  they  rode  away  together  that 
afternoon  Sir  Claude  and  Achmed 
had  remained  coldly  master  and  ser- 
vant. The  Arab  had  seen  Benchaalal's 
burnous  move  when  they  came  upon 
him  by  the  river,  and  had  divined  the 
truth.  But  he  had  said  nothing, 
showed  nothing.  Whether  Sir  Claude 
had  seen  what  he  had  seen  he  did  not 
know.  They  had  ridden  on  in  silence 

to  the  inn.     At  the  door  Sir  Claude 
1 60 


had  dismounted  without  words,  and 
had  gone  straight  up  -  stairs.  And 
Achmed  had  not  followed  him,  but 
had  remained  below  to  watch  for  the 
return  of  the  Spahi,  for  the  return, 
perhaps,  of  another.  And  he  had  not 
waited  in  vain.  When  Lady  Wyverne 
tried  the  door  he  had  been  there. 
Then  he  had  gone  to  the  stables,  had 
thrown  himself  down  and  slept.  Later 
Sir  Claude  had  told  him  to  prepare 
for  a  second  nocturnal  expedition. 
And  now  they  were  off. 

A,      i^-     ****» 

Did  his  master  know?    He  tried  to 

read   him  with   his  one   eye,   as  he 

U       talked  of  Barbary  sheep.     The  hun- 

\     dred  francs,  spoken  of  near  the  salt 

w  mountain,  must  be  in  his  pocket  to- 

\morrowT,    those    and    many    others, 

===_    enough  to  make  him  forget  the  lost 

"--  money    of    the    Spahi.     His    whole 

being  was  alive  with  determination 

-s.         to    recoup    himself.     But    when    he 

"OtiSa looked  at  Sir  Claude's  hard  face  he 


knew  he  must  be  wary.  For  even 
the  Englishman,  who  lets  his  women 
go  unveiled,  does  not  love  to  hear 
their  names  befouled  by  the  lips  of 
strangers. 

"Look  here,  Achmed,"  said  Sir 
Claude,  presently,  "I  want  you  to 
take  me  up  into  the  mountain  above 
El-Akbara  to-night.  The  whole  place 
is  one  mass  of  rocks,  and  full  of  good 
hiding-places  to  get  a  shot  from." 

"But  monsieur  cannot  shoot  at 
night." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  could.  But  I  want 
to  have  a  look  at  the  ground.  Then 
I'll  come  back  to  the  camp  and  sleep 
for  a  bit,  and  go  up  again  towards 
dawn." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  round  on  his 
mule  and  looked  back  at  the  mighty 
rocks  that  descended  in  giant  steps 
to  the  road  that  led  to  the  Sahara. 

"  You  understand  ?"  he  added,  turn- 
^  ing  round  again. 


162 


"Monsieur  wishes  to  go  up  there, 
near  the  gorge?" 

Sir  Claude  looked  sharply  at  the 
Arab. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  slight  hesi- 
tation. 

"I  do  not  know  if  there  will  be 
Barbary  sheep  up  there." 

"I  intend  to  find  out,  anyway." 

"  I  am  the  servant  of  monsieur.  I 
will  do  whatever  monsieur  desires. 
Monsieur  will  be  generous  to  me?" 

Sir  Claude  gnawed  his  mustache, 
looking  down  sideways  at  the  road. 
His  pride,  and  something  else,  re- 
volted against  the  idea  of  making 
the  guide  his  confidant.  But  there 
was  something  alive  and  burning 
within  him,  something  passionate, 
even  furious,  which  seemed  to  be 
fighting  his  own  nature  and  to  be 
subduing  it. 

"I  shall  be  generous  to  you,"  he 
said,  at  last,  without  looking  at  the 


Arab.  "If  you  do  exactly  what  I 
want — and  don't  talk." 

Achmed  put  his  finger  to  his  lips. 

"Monsieur  has  only  to  tell  me,"  he 
said,  softly. 

"I  don't  want  those  fellows  to 
know  where  I'm  going  to-night,"  Sir 
Claude  said.  "I  want  the  camp 
pitched  a  good  way  out,  but  so  that  I 
can  get  to  the  mountain  at  the  left 
of  the  road  on  the  edge  of  the  desert, 
the  mountain  that  rises  out  of  the 
gorge,  where  all  those  rocks  are." 

"And  when  does  monsieur  wish  to 
be  on  the  mountain?" 

"  I  wish  to  be  there  towards  sunset. 
I  shall  take  some  food  with  me  in 
case  I'm  back  late.  But  the  camp 
must  be  pitched  a  long  way  off." 

"And  I  am  to  come  with  monsieur 
and  guide  him  back?" 

Sir  Claude  rode  on  for  a  minute  or 
two  without  speaking.  Then  he  an- 
swered : 


"You  can  come  with  me  and  wait 
for  me." 

"Wait  for  monsieur?" 

"I'll  settle  where.     That'll  do." 

They  rode  on  in  silence.  Achmed 's 
brain  was  working  busily  and  his 
heart  was  happy.  He  would  get 
money  after  all.  But  he  was  full  of 
curiosity.  What  was  the  Roumi 
ing  to  do?  What  did  he  know  or 
suspect  ? 

Sir  Claude  did  not  tell  him.  In- 
deed, he  sent  Achmed  on  ahead,  and 
rode  alone  till  they  had  reached  a 
desolate  plateau  surrounded  by  bare 
mountains,  whose  rocky  crests  were 
sharply  defined  against  the  clear  sky, 
in  which  the  moon  hung  like  a  ghostly 
thing  as  yet  scarcely  visible  against 
the  blue.  Then  Achmed  pulled  up 
and  called  out  to  him. 

"Monsieur  will  sleep  here.  This 
is  a  good  place  from  which  to  go  out 

after  the  sheep." 

165 


"All  right,"  said  Sir  Claude. 
He    swung   himself   off   his    mule, 
and  walked  up  and  down  while  the 
men  put  up  the  tent  and  picketed 
the  beasts.     He  felt  desperately  lone- 
ly, almost  as  he  had  long  years  ago 
when  he  went  to  a  public  school  for 
the  first  time,  and  cold — cold  through 
all    his    body.     Only    his    head    was 
burning  and  his  temples  were  throb- 
bing.    As  he  walked  he  stared  at  the 
mountains  that  encircled  him,  mon- 
I  strous,  cruel-looking  shapes.     He  was 
\  not  imaginative,  but  to-day  they  im- 
pressed him  powerfully,  almost  terri- 
bly, and  he  remembered — again  go- 
ing back  to  his  boyhood — how  once 
as  a  child  he  had  been  left  alone  in 
the   drawing-room   on   a    dark,    wet 
day,  and  had  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  a  great,  red  book  which  contained 
pictures   of   the   circles   of   hell.     In 
those  pictures  there  were  mountains 
T^l  like  these,  and  hideous  ravines  guard- 
$ 


ed  by  rocks  like  gigantic  teeth.  And 
among  the  mountains  and  in  the 
ravines  the  souls  of  the  lost  were  im- 
prisoned. 

It  seemed  to  him  then  that  the 
little  boy  in  the  drawing-room  had 
seen  in  the  book  prophetic  pictures, 
and  he  shivered. 

The  Arabs  began  to  sing  as  they 
worked.  One  of  them  wailed  in  a 
plaintive  voice  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes. Then  the  others  sang  in  cho- 
rus. Then  the  first  voice  wailed  again 
alone. 

Presently  the  tent  was  up,  and 
Achmed  came  to  him  smiling  and 
carrying  the  guns. 

"I  am  ready,  monsieur." 

"And  the  food?" 

"What  will  monsieur  have?" 

"Anything — bread  and  cheese  and 
a  bit  of  meat.  But  I'll  have  a  drink 
before  we  start." 

He  went  over  to  the  tent  and  pull- 


ed  the  cork  out  of  a  bottle  of  brandy. 
I  Achmed  gave  him  a  glass.  He  half 
filled  it,  poured  in  some  soda-water, 
,*land  drank  it  off,  while  Achmed  got 
the  provisions.  Then  he  poured  more 
into  a  large  silver  flask,  put 
it  into  his  pocket,  and  mounted  a 
mule.  Achmed  was  going  to  walk. 
They  set  off  together  and  soon  lost 
sight  of  the  camp. 

Achmed  walked  in  front  at  first 
to  show  the  way,  but  presently  he 
dropped  back  and  kept  by  the  side 
of  the  mule.  He  wanted  to  talk,  to 
satisfy  his  curiosity.  He  was  not 
shy.  No  desert  Arab  is.  But  when 
he  glanced  up  at  Sir  Claude  an  un- 
easiness took  possession  of  him.  The 
Roumi  looked  different,  like  a  changed 
man,  changed  even  in  feature. 

It  was  Sir  Claude  who  spoke  first. 

"You  know  what  I  want,"  he  said, 
roughly.  "  I  want  you  to  take  me  to 
the  mountain  above  the  gorge,  to  a 


1 68 


place  from  which  I  can  get  down 
among  the  rocks,  get  down  as  low  as 
I  like,  right  down  if  I  wish  to." 

"Monsieur,  it  is  not  easy." 

"That  don't  matter.  Have  you 
ever  done  it?" 

"Monsieur,  I  can  go  wherever  a 
goat  can  go.  But  I  go  with  naked 
feet." 

"Where  you  can  get  down,  I  can." 

"I  will  show  monsieur  a  place.  If 
monsieur  goes  where  I  show  him, 
monsieur  could  get  down  to  near  the 
rock  where  Benchaalal  sat  when  we 
passed  by  this  morning." 

"That's  it." 

"  If  Benchaalal  should  be  there  to- 
night, he  would  be  surprised  to  see 
monsieur." 

There  was  a  vicious  sound  in  the 
Arab's  soft  voice. 

"Why  should  Benchaalal  be  there 
to-night?"  said  Sir  Claude,  fiercely. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 


"Nothing,  monsieur.  Only — only 
Benchaalal  often  goes  into  the  desert 
by  night.  But  monsieur  is  in  bed- 
monsieur  sleeps  and  does  not  see  him 
go." 

A  deep  flush  of  red  went  over  Sir 
Claude's  brown  face.  He  realized 
in  that  moment  that  this  Arab  knew 
much  more,  certainly,  than  he  did. 
And  yet  he  knew  enough,  surely !  He 
knew  that  when  he  returned  to  the 
inn  his  wife's  room  was  empty.  He 
knew  that  she  crept  back  to  the  inn 
with  a  white,  terrified  face  when  the 
sun  was  up.  He  knew  that  when  she 
said  she  must  have  been  asleep  when 
the  mules  came  in  from  the  desert  she 
II  lied  to  him.  All  this  he  knew.  But 
now  a  terrible  curiosity  was  awake  in 
him  with  a  terrible  anger,  a  terrible 
sense  of  wrong,  and  a  terrible  con- 
tempt. He  had  felt  it  all  day,  this 
desire  to  know  more,  but  he  had  re- 
It  sisted  it.  And  he  had  meant  to  resist 


it  always.  He  had  meant  to  —  but 
now! 

"  Achmed,"  he  said,  staring  straight 
before  him  between  the  mules'  ears 
at  the  stony  track. 

"Monsieur." 

"Why  should  —  why  should  Ben- 
chaalal  go  into  the  desert  at  night 
alone?  What  does  he  go  for?.  Has 
he  friends  in  the  village?" 

"  Monsieur,  he  has  friends.  But  he 
does  not  go  to  the  village." 

Achmed  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  added,  slowly: 

"And  he  does  not  go  alone." 

"Whom  does  he  go  with?"  said 
Sir  Claude,  after  a  pause  of  hesita- 
tion, and  in  an  uncertain  voice. 

"But  surely  monsieur  knows!" 
Achmed  said,  innocently.  "  If  any- 
body should  know  with  whom  Ben- 
chaalal  walks  at  night,  it  would.be 
monsieur." 


"  Answer    my 


question, 
171 


It  does  not  matter — what  I  know. 
You  answer  my  question." 

"  Benchaalal  walks  at  night  with 
madame," 

"You're  a  damned  liar!" 

Achmed  said  nothing.  But  he 
withdrew  a  pace  or  two  from  the 
mule.  He  did  not  look  angry.  Being 
called  a  liar  did  not  distress  him  at 
all.  Every  human  being  was  a  liar, 
he  supposed.  And  why  not?  Still, 
he  had  told  the  truth  this  time.  The 
Roumi  was  a  fool  not  to  believe  him. 

"D'  you  hear?"  Sir  Claude  said, 
fiercely. 

"  I  hear,  monsieur." 

''I  know  all  about  you.  Madame 
at  the  auberge  told  me." 

"Madame  at  the  salt  mountain  is 
a  chamelle,"  Achmed  answered,  vi- 
•ciously.  "  If  monsieur  believes  such  a 
?  woman,  a  woman  whom  every  Arab — 

"That'll  do.      You  needn't  black- 
guard the  woman." 
172 


•MM 
I 


"If  monsieur  doubts  my  words 
will  not  speak  at  all.  But  I  always 
tell  the  truth.  No  Arab  speaks  the 
truth  as  I  do.  All  the  rest  are  liars. 
I  alone  speak  the  truth.  Let  mon- 
sieur find  out  for  himself.  I  say  that 
madame  walks  with  Benchaalal  at 
night.  And  why  not?  Who  would!?' 
not  wish  to  see  the  moon  upon  the 
desert?  Madame  loves  these  things. 
Monsieur — no !  Therefore  monsieur 
sleeps,  and  madame  finds  some  one  to 
accompany  her.  She  cannot  go  alone, 
and  Benchaalal  is  not  a  poor  Arab. 
He  is  an  officer.  So  madame  chooses 
Benchaalal.  It  is  very  simple." 

The  last  words  of  the  Arab  struck 
hard  into  Sir  Claude's  heart,  as  truth 
sometimes  strikes  like  a  well -aimed 
knife. 

"Therefore  monsieur  sleeps!"  Yes, 
it  was  very  simple.  At  that  moment 
Sir  Claude  saw  himself  as  the  first 
and  the  last  of  fools.  When  a  man 

173 


such  a  vision  of  himself,  if  he  is 
really  a  man  the  momentary  crum- 
bling of  all  his  self-respect  is  suc- 
ceeded by  a  desire  that  seems  made 
of  granite  —  the  desire  to  reinstate 
himself  upon  his  seat,  his  throne  of 
manhood.  At  whatever  cost  he  must 
do  that,  at  whatever  cost  of  suffering, 
of  terror  even,  perhaps  of  crime. 

"Where  are  we?" 

Achmed  stretched  out  his  arm. 

"Monsieur  sees  that  rock  there, 
to  the  south,  shaped  like  a  resting 
camel?" 

"I  see  it." 

"  From  that  rock  monsieur  can  see 
the  villages  of  El-Akbara." 

Sir  Claude  pulled  up  the  mule. 

"I'll  get  down  here." 

He  swung  himself  to  the  ground 
before  Achmed  could  speak. 

"Take  the  mule." 

"Monsieur  is  not  going  alone?" 

"Yes.     You're  to  stay  here  and 


wait  for  me.     Give  me  some  of  the 
food." 

"But  if  monsieur  wishes  to  de- 
scend I  must  come  with  him  to  show 
the  way." 

"  I  did  not  say  I  was  going  down. 
Give  me  the  food." 

He  slung  one  of  the  guns  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  But  I  am  responsible  for  monsieur. 
When  it  gets  dark — " 

"  Achmed,"  Sir  Claude  said,  abrupt- 
ly, "here's  a  hundred  francs." 

He  drew  out  a  note  and  put  it  into 
the  guide's  eager  hand. 

"  If  you  attempt  to  follow  me,  you 
won't  get  another  penny.  If  you 
stay  here  as  I  tell  you,  you'll  get  more. 
Do  you  understand  ?" 

"And  if — if  monsieur  does  not  re-/7 
turn?" 

«TT  4.     !.:>»» 

Have  you  got  a  watch? 
"Yes,  monsieur." 
"If  by  midnight   I   haven't  com< 
175 


back,  you  can  do  what  you  like.  You 
can  come  after  me,  or  you  can  go  to 
the  camp.  The  food!" 

The   guide   handed   it   to   him   in 
silence. 
.     "Au  revoir!" 

"Au  revoir,  m'sieu!    Bon  voyage!" 

He  stood  holding  the  mule,  and 
watched  Sir  Claude  walk  away  with 
long  strides  towards  the  mountain 
that  was  dominated  by  the  mighty 
rock. 

Sir  Claude  walked  on  till  the  rocks 
hid  him  from  Achmed's  sight.  Then 
he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked 
around  him.  The  sun  was  already 
declining,  and  upon  those  mountains 
which  were  not  within  the  circle  of 
its  final  glories  there  was  settling  a 
strange  grayness.  Their  naked  flanks 
and  treeless  summits  looked  worn 
and  weary,  like  a  face  lined  with 
the  travail  of  life.  The  lonely  man 

drew  a  long  breath  as  he  looked  at 
176 


them.  He  was  wondering,  wonder- 
ing at  the  thought  of  the  joy  that 
had  come  to  him  from  these  moun- 
tain fastnesses  only  a  few  hours  be- 
fore. Then  he  had  revelled  in  their 
wildness,  had  been  stirred  by  the 
thought  of  their  remoteness  from 
England.  The  blood  in  his  veins 
had  leaped  in  answer  to  the  winds 
that  blew  over  them,  in  answer  to 
the  sun  that  made  their  scattered 
crystals  shine  like  jewels.  An  in- 
tense physical  well-being  had  been 
generated  within  him  by  the  African 
airs,  the  African  desolation,  by  the 
freedom  and  the  strangeness  of  this 
spacious,  undressed  country. 

Now  he  felt  a  horror  and  a  hatred 
of  all  that  had  rejoiced  him.  They 
had  come  to  him  with  a  horror  and  a 
hatred  of  the  men  whose  native  land 
this  was. 

Sir  Claude  that  evening  was  like 
g^  a  man  who  has  fallen  into  an  abyss 


from  a  sunlit  peak.  His  world,  the 
world  he  had  known  and  believed  in, 
had  suddenly  vanished  out  of  his 
sight.  All  familiar  landmarks  were 
gone.  And  the  utterly  incredulous 
man  was  turned  into  a  man  ready  to 
be  credulous  of  any  abomination. 

That  the  woman  he  had  mentally 
set  far  above  him  should  have  done 
the  unimaginable  thing,  should  have 
allowed  one  of  these  brown  men  to 
—he  ground  his  teeth  together  and 
••went  on  towards  that  rock  like  a 
Cresting  camel.  He  was  confused. 
[He  walked  in  a  nightmare. 

Kitty's  birth,  bringing -up,  life, 
[tastes — all  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to 
[the  truth.  Was  she  mad?  Was  she 
^•immeasurably  corrupt  ?  How  had  he 
tnever  suspected  it  ?  Her  caprices  had 
>een  like  the  caprices  of  a  child. 
rAnd  what  was  she  ? 

He  did  not  formulate  to  himself 
^what  she  had  possibly  done.  He  did 


178 


fe&V 


not  mentally  accuse  her  definitely  of 
what  everybody  would  acknowledge 
to  be  the  last  infamy.  He  stopped 
short  of  that  because  it  seemed  to  him 
just  then  that  what  he  was  sure  of 
was  enough.  For  he  was  sure.  Even 
without  Achmed's  words — and  he  be- 
lieved them,  he  somehow  knew  that 
they  were  true — he  was  sure. 

That  morning,  when  he  had  reach- 
ed the  hotel,  he  had  hurried  up  the 
stairs  and  gone  at  once  to  his  wife's 
room.  He  had  found  it  empty,  and 
as  he  stood  there  staring  at  the  bed 
he  knew  a  horrible  thing,  knew  that 
he  had  expected  to  find  it  empty,  had 
known  almost  that  it  would  be 
empty. 

It  is  very  strange  that  sometimes, 
if  we  are  close  to  a  person  whom  we 
cannot  see,  and  of  whose  presence  we 
are  not  otherwise  aware,  but  with 
whom  we  are  very  intimate,  we  feel  •] 

that  person  is  near  us.     Something, 
179 


we  know  not  what,  tells  us  so.  We 
may  believe  that  we  reject  the  subtle 
information,  but  do  we  ever  really 
reject  it? 

Few  people  would  have  picked  out 
Sir  Claude  Wyverne  as  a  sensitive 
man.  Nevertheless,  in  connection 
with  his  wife  he  could  be  very  sensi- 
tive. That  morning,  as  he  sat  on  his 
mule  face  to  face  with  the  very  com- 
posed African,  who  smiled  at  him  half- 
sleepily,  and  sent  pale  -  blue  smoke 
out  through  his  dilated  nostrils,  Sir 
Claude  had  felt  suddenly  as  if  his  wife 
were  near  him.  It  was  then  that  he 
had  looked  behind  the  Spahi,  had 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  get  off  his 
mule.  The  Spahi  had  read  him  in 
that  moment,  had  known  that  it  was 
terribly  critical.  But  he  had  kept 
his  head.  He  had  met  Sir  Claude's 
movement  with  absolute  immobility, 
Sir  Claude's  strained,  searching  glance 
with  eyes  that  held  only  a  calm 


i  So 


serenity.     And   he  had   stopped 
Claude  from  carrying  out  his  inten- 
tion as  certainly  as  if  he  had  seized 
and  bound  him  to  his  mule  by  the 
exercise  of  superior  strength. 

The  African's  calm  had  made  Sir 
Claude  realize  then  the  probable  mad- 
ness of  his  own  supposition.  He  had 
felt  for  the  moment  ashamed  of  him- 
self and  had  ridden  away.  Neverthe- 
less, directly  he  had  gone,  again  had 
come  to  him  the  horrible  feeling  that 
Kitty  had  been  near  to  him  when  he 
was  near  to  Benchaalal.  In  vain  he 
combated  this  feeling.  It  remained 
with  him  all  the  way  through  the 
5  gorge  and  until  he  drew  up  before 
the  inn  door.  Then  he  went  up- 
stairs and  saw  the  empty  room.  And 
then  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew 
—knew  the  incredible,  the  impossible. 

Yet  he  did  not  go  back  to  the 
Spahi.  Kitty  had  thought  that  he 
could  not  be  subtle;  anything  else, 


not  subtle.  Yet  even  she  did  not 
know,  did  not  divine  all  that  there  was 
in  her  husband,  all  that  he  might  be, 
might  do  under  unusual  circumstances. 
When  he  saw  that  empty  bedroom 
a  new  man  seemed  suddenly  to  be 
born  within  Sir  Claude,  a  man  con- 
ceived in  infinite  travail.  That  new 
man  was  quiet,  self -con  trolled.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  very  still.  Then 
he  turned  and  went  to  his  bedroom 
and  locked  himself  in.  The  green 
persiennes  that  were  fastened  over 
the  French  windows  which  opened  on 
to  the  veranda  prevented  any  one 
upon  the  veranda  from  looking  into 
the  bedroom,  but  permitted  any  per- 
son in  the  bedroom  to  see  clearly 
into  the  world  without.  The  win- 
dows were  shut.  Sir  Claude  opened 

|  them  gently  and  stood  still  behind 
the  persiennes.  There  he  remained, 
waiting,  motionless,  with  his  hands 

Changing  by  his  sides  and  his  eyes, 


bloodshot  with  fatigue,  staring  at  the 
white  road  beyond  the  Judas- trees. 
And  at  last  he  saw  coming  along  the 
white  road  a  woman  with  a  white 
face.  He  saw  her  look  up  at  his 
windows,  a  glance  of  dreadful,  search- 
ing anxiety.  It  seemed  to  him  for 
a  moment  that  he  met  her  eyes,  that 
they  stared  into  his,  that  they  knew 
he  was  there.  Then  she  passed  out 
of  his  sight,  creeping  across  the  pave- 
ment of  the  court.  And  then,  pres- 
ently, he  heard  behind  him  a  soft 
and  furtive  step,  like  the  step  of  a 
thief  or  a  marauder,  the  creak  of  a 
door.  She  had  come  in,  his  wife. 
She  was  close  to  him.  He  heard  her 
key  turn  in  the  lock. 

And  only  then  was  he  conscious 
that  drops  of  sweat  were  rolling  down  // ,//,, 
his  face. 

He  went  over   to   the  washstand  . 
and  bathed  his  face.     His  big  hands 
were  trembling.     They  wanted  to 


•i*  -. 


something.  He  knew  what  they  want- 
ed to  do.     At  that  moment  they  long-  J 
ed  to  kill  the  woman   they  had  soj 
often  caressed. 

He  looked  down  at  them  with  a 
of  dull  wonder. 

The  wonder  had  never  quite  left 
him  since  then. 

Now  he  walked  on  again  slowly, 
mounting  over  the  uneven  ground 
towards  the  great  rock  from  which 
he  would  be  able  to  see  the  three 
villages  of  El-Akbara. 

When  he  reached  it  the  sun  had 
gone  down,  but  there  was  still  some 
red  in  the  western  sky.  He  sat  down 
upon  the  rock  and  looked  over  the 
desert.  He  meant  to  descend  pres- 
ently, but  he  must  rest  for  a  moment. 
He  must  think,  or  try  to  think. 

He  felt  horribly  tired  both  in  body 
and  in  mind. 

As  he  looked  out  upon  the  desert 

again  the  sense  of  utter  loneliness,  of 
184 


immense  desolation  came  over  him. 
He  fingered  his  gun  mechanically  as 
he  sat  there. 

In  the  distance,  among  the  great, 
tufted  palm-trees,  he  saw  thin  trails  of 
smoke  rising  from  the  African  houses, 
tiny  birds — they  were  doves,  but  he  did 
not  know  it — circling  about  a  brown 
minaret,  that  from  this  height  looked 
black,  some  camels  creeping  along  the 
road  towards  the  south.  Beside  the 
camels  little  hooded  men  walked 
swiftly. 

These  hooded  men  were  of  the  race 
of  the  Spahi,  of  the  dark-blooded 
Oriental  race. 

A  sort  of  sickness  came  upon  Sir 
Claude.  Kitty  was  bone  of  his  bone, 
!  flesh  of  his  flesh,  yet  now  there  was  a 
gulf  between  them.  He  was  on  this, 
the  hither  side  of  it.  She  was  upon 
the  farther  side,  the  side  where  the 
dark  races  swarmed  beneath  the  tor- 
jid  African  sun.  Secretly,  in  the  night, 


-v; 


while  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  fool, 
she  had  crossed  the  gulf. 

He  believed  he  hated  her.  And 
he  kept  on  fingering  his  gun. 

Yes,  he  hated  her,  and  he  had  a 
right  to  hate  her.  He  said  that  to 
himself  dully. 

There  was  not  a  living  Englishman 
who  would  not  condemn  her.  She 
had  put  herself  out  of  court. 

Even  now  he  did  not  say  to  him- 
self that  she  had  committed  the  worst 
\ offence.  It  was  not  necessary  to  say 
'that.  He  knew  enough  without  that, 
i  For  now  he  was  sure  that  when  he  had 
k  spoken  to  Benchaalal  by  the  river  she 
[had  been  there.  She  had  been  with 
i  the  Arab,  and  when  he,  her  husband, 
I  had  come  she  had  hidden  from  him. 

That  was  enough.  He  wished  he 
>had  killed  her  in  her  hiding-place. 

The  desert  was  growing  darker. 
I  He  got  up  from  the  rock  and  turned 
•  to  go  down  to  the  gorge. 

1 86 


^MM 


XII 


BENCHAALAL  sat  cross-legged  in 
a  corner  of  the  principal  cafe 
maure  of  the  brown  village  of  El- 
Akbara.  This  cafe  was  situated  on 
the  high-road  that  led  to  the  desert, 
and  was  opposite  to  the  Arab  ceme- 
tery—  a  quantity  of  upright  stones 
fixed  in  the  hard,  sun-dried  earth, 
without  wrall  or  fence  to  guard  the 
homes  of  the  dead  from  intruders. 
Outside  the  caf6  was  a  sort  of  arbor 
made  of  reeds.  In  this  squatted  four 
or  five  Arabs  playing  dominoes.  But 
within  the  cafe  there  was  no  one  but 
the  Spahi  and  the  bare -legged  at- 
tendant who  served  the  coffee,  which 
he  took  from  a  niche  of  earth  in  which 
187 


glowed  a  fire  of  brushwood.  Now 
and  then  an  Arab  passed  across  the 
space  of  the  doorway.  One  or  two 
even  looked  in  and  solemnly  spoke 
a  greeting  to  the  Spahi.  But  he 
seemed  to  hear  nothing,  to  see  no  one. 
With  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground 
he  sipped  his  coffee  and  smoked 
cigarette  after  cigarette,  taking  the 
tobacco  from  a  long  silver  box  which 
lay  beside  him,  and  rolling  it  swiftly 
and  deftly  in  the  thin  slips  of  paper 
of  which  he  always  carried  a  large 
supply. 

He  was  absorbed.  His  mind  lay 
deep  down  in  reverie.  All  trace  of 
the  fury  which  had  convulsed  him 
when  he  was  with  Achmed  had  died 
out  of  his  face.  He  looked  quite  calm, 
almost  sleepy.  But  his  mind  was 
fiercely  alive.  His  passions  were 
"ablaze.  And  all  the  time  that  he 
motionless  he  was  meditating 
activity. 


1 88 


Benchaalal  was  swiftly  intellig- 
without  being  what  English  people 
sometimes  call  "deep."  Where  his 
own  dear  interests  were  involved  he 
was  acute  and  quite  without  scruple. 
And  though,  perhaps,  he  could  not 
have  been  subtle  for  a  long  time,  could 
not  have  been  very  patient  in  any 
cleverness,  he  knew  how  to  be  both 
ingenious  and  secretive  at  a  moment, 
as  he  had  proved  many  times  in  his 
life.  But  he  had  the  fault  which 
spoils  so  much  Arab  diplomacy. 
When  his  passions  were  strong  he  was 
often  carried  away  by  them.  His 
temper  often  pulled  down  the  edi- 
fice built  up  by  his  craft.  And  when 
calm  returned  to  him  he  looked  upon 
the  ruins. 

Already  he  had  realized  the  mis- 
take he  had  made  with  Achmed. 

The  guide  would  surely  go  and  be- 
tray him  to  the  Roumi,  to  the  big, 

blond  hunter  of  Barbary  sheep,  who 
189 


|went  to  bed  ere  the  moon  was  up,  and 
who  left  his  pretty  creature,  his  little 
squirrel  of  the  woods,  his  rose  of  the 
garden,  his  Fatima  with  the  eyes  like 
turquoises,  and  the  tiny  hands  like 
silver,  to  hear  the  Spahi's  serenade, 
and  to  sit  beside  the  Spahi  by  the 
river.  Benchaalal  had  a  great  con- 
tempt for  the  Roumi — the  contempt 
of  the  cultured  Mussulman  for  the  un- 
cultured Christian,  than  which  there 
are  few  feelings  more  unmeasured, 
f|few  feelings  more  profound.  But  he 

I  must  take  the  Roumi  into  account, 
must  reckon  with  him  now  that  the 
great  mistake  was  made  and  that  the 
outburst  of  fury  which  had  caused  it> 
was  subsiding. 

What  would  the  Roumi  do? 
Benchaalal  had  his  own  ideas  about 

Sj  t     ' 

^foreigners,  gathered  chiefly  from  his 
intercourse  with  the  French  in  Al- 
giers and  during  two  visits  which  he 

had  made  to  Paris.     Of  the  English 
190 


he  knew  but  little.  He  knew  them 
to  be  a  great  nation.  He  conceived 
of  them  as  all  very  rich.  He  imag- 
ined them  all  dwelling  in  a  northern 
land  which  was  perpetually  shroud- 
ed in  heavy  yellow  clouds  of  great 
density  called  by  them  "Le  fogge." 
The  blood  in  such  lands  ran  cold,  he 
supposed.  Without  the  sun,  how 
could  there  be  fire  in  men  ? 

He  knew  very  well  what  an  Arab 
would  do,  or  try  to  do,  if  he  were  told 
a  story  such  as  Achmed  would  surely 
tell  the  Roumi,  had,  perhaps,  al- 
ready told  him.  He  would  kill,  or 
try  to  kill,  the  woman  who  had 
wronged  his  pride  of  possession  and 
the  man  who  had  persuaded  her. 
But  the  English  were  not  like  the 
Arabs.  They  let  their  women  run.//  , 

//    /! 

loose.     They  let  them  talk  and  laugh^  Jy; 
with  any  man  who  came  near.     TOM 
an    Arab    the    freedom    of    Western  Ml 
women  is  a  perpetual  source  of  amaze-  m 


>l  ment,  and  the  situation  of  the  West- 
ern man  in  regard  to  his  women 
!?'  makes  him  an  object  of  secret  con- 
r'jf  tempt  among  Orientals.  This  con- 
tempt, felt  strongly  by  Benchaalal, 
caused  him  to  ponder  now.  Although 
he  knew  what  he  would  do  were  he 
Sir  Claude,  he  could  not  tell  what 
Sir  Claude  would  do. 

He  had  looked  into  the  Roumi's 
face  on  the  river-bank.  It  had  been 
stern,  hard.  The  eyes  were  search- 
ing. It  was  a  man's  face.  That 
was  certain.  Yet  this  man  had  slept 
each  night,  leaving  his  woman  to  do 
what  she  would.  And  he  had  de- 
serted her  each  day.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  care  what  happened. 

Nothing  had  happened  yet. 

His  mind  left  Sir  Claude  and  went 
to  Lady  Wyverne.  And  here  the 
Spahi  was  on  surer  ground.  He  had 
an  instinct  with  women.  Western 

men  he  did  not  understand  thorough- 
193 


ly,  despite  his  intercourse  with  the 
French.  But  he  would  have  laughed 
to  hear  any  one  tell  him  that  he  could 
be  long  tricked  or  puzzled  by  a  wom- 
an, that  a  woman  could  play  with 
him,  or  read  him  while  keeping  the 
pages  of  her  book  closed  from  his 
eyes.  For  a  moment  he  put  aside 
Sir  Claude  and  his  possible  actions, 
and  concentrated  himself  upon  the 
little  squirrel  of  the  woods,  the  rose 
of  the  garden. 

Granted  that  Sir  Claude  did  not 

interfere  at  once,  granted  that  Lady 

Wyverne  was  not  carried  off  to  Beni- 

K       Mora,   what   would   she   do?     What 

\     would  she  do  now  if  left  to  herself  ? 

fe[      Very  deep  grew  Benchaalal's  rev- 

\erie.     For  a  while  he  even  forgot  to 

s^      sip  his  coffee  and  roll  a  new  cigarette. 

^-_  His   eyes   were    fixed    on    the    floor. 

His  hands  dropped  down  to  his  feet 

and  held  them  loosely. 

Presently  across  the  sunlit  space 


of  the  doorway  passed  a  strange  figure 
clad  in  bright  green,  with  a  green-and- 
red  turban.  It  was  the  mad  Mara- 
bout wandering  to  and  fro,  absorbed, 
led,  perhaps,  by  some  hallucination. 
Two,  three  times  he  passed  and  re- 
passed  before  the  door  of  the  cafe" 
unobserved  by  Benchaalal.  Then  he 
came  in  under  the  arbor  of  reeds  and 
stood  still,  peering  into  the  shadowy 
room  with  his  large,  blue  eyes,  which 
were  like  the  eyes  of  a  distracted 
Christ.  Benchaalal  did  not  look  up. 
The  Marabout  stared  at  him,  hesitated, 
moved  a  little  away,  then  seemed  to 
^ftake  courage,  stepped  furtively  into 
the  cafe",  came  towards  Benchaalal, 
and  finally  squatted  down  near  him 
on  the  floor. 

The  attendant  stared  in  grave  sur- 
prise,  for  the  madman  never  went 
beneath  a  roof,  but  seemed  to  have 
|  a  passion  for  the  sky  and  the  air,  and 
!p  for  years  had  always  slept  under  the 


stars.  After  regarding  the  Marabout 
for  a  moment,  he  made  a  guttural 
sound  in  his  throat  and  pointed  tow- 
ards the  brass  coffee-pot.  The  Mar- 
about paid  no  attention.  He  was 
looking  alternately  at  Benchaalal  and 
at  the  floor,  with  a  flickering  curios- 
ity and  uneasiness  that  were  almost 
wholly  animal.  At  length  the  Spahi 
glanced  up  and  noticed  his  companion. 

"  Bring  me  another  coffee,  Ah- 
meda,"  he  said  to  the  attendant. 

When  it  was  brought  he  held  it  out 
to  the  Marabout,  who  accepted  it 
furtively  and  began  to  sip,  looking 
away  with  his  head  held  on  one  side, 
like  one  performing  an  unusual  ac- 
tion that  he  fears  may  be  condemned 
if  seen. 

The  Spahi  began  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
When  it  was  finished  he  put  it  into 
the  Marabout's  hand.  Then  he  rolled 
one  for  himself  and  again  seemed  to 
sink  into  a  reverie. 

195 


The  Marabout  smoked  slowly  and 
carefully,  gazing  at  the  smoke,  as  it 
curled  away  from  his  lips  and  evap- 
orated, with  an  air  of  childish  won- 
der. And  presently  Benchaalal  be- 
gan to  watch  him.  He  remembered 
when  this  man  had  been  sane,  when 
he  had  been  respected  for  his  wealth. 
A  visit  to  Beni-Mora  had  been  his 
ruin.  In  the  dusty,  dancing  street, 
with  its  wailing  music,  its  gleaming 
lights,  its  small,  white  houses,  he  had 
met  his  fate  in  the  girl  from  the  south, 
Ayesha. 

What  a  strange  thing  to  go  mad 
for  a  woman,  to  come  to  this!  To 
sit  with  the  Marabout  was  almost 
like  sitting  with  an  animal.  Ben- 
chaalal's  mind  ran  on  women  and 
the  havoc  they  cause,  and  he  won- 
^dered  whether  he  would  ever  be  re- 
'warded  for  the  love  of  them  as  this 
I  man  had  been.  For  a  moment  the 

.companionship  of  this  poor  creature 
196 


almost  moved  him  to  a  strange  de- 
cision. What  if  he  were  to  mount  a 
horse,  set  his  spurs  to  its  flanks,  and 
go  out  into  the  desert,  go  on  and  on 
with  never  a  look  behind,  never  a 
thought  flung  back  to  the  Roumi- 
woman  in  the  gorge.  Like  to  like!* 
He  belonged  to  the  desert  and  the 
desert  to  him.  It  was  as  the  old 
woman  of  the  auberge  had  said.  The 
Arab  changes  not.  Bring  him  back 
to  the  sand  and  the  veneer  of  West- 
ern civilization  drops  from  him.  He 
casts  it  away.  He  forgets  it.  He 
drinks  the  fierce  red  soup.  He  puts 
his  dark  fingers  to  the  cous-cous.  He 
smokes  the  keef .  And  it  is  gone,  the 
pretence  and  the  dream  of  other  lands. 
It  is  shrivelled  by  the  sun,  his  sun, 
the  sun  that  shines  upon  the  great, 
bare  world  of  Allah  and  his  Prophet. 
The  Marabout  stirred,  whimpered. 
His  cigarette  was  smoked  out.  He 

got  up,  balanced  himself  first  on  one 
197 


bare  foot,  then  on  the  other,  cast  a 
shifty,  sidelong  glance  at  Benchaalal, 
and  crept  out  of  the  cafe.  The  Spahi 
saw  him  walk  straightforward  in  the 
sun  until  he  reached  the  cemetery 
beyond  the  high-road.  There  he 
began  to  wander  round  and  round 
among  the  stones  that  marked  the 
graves,  circling  almost  as  a  hungry 
pariah  dog  sometimes  does  when  it 
seeks  by  night  for  carrion. 

Benchaalal  wondered  why  he  had 
come  into  the  cafe".  What  had  drawn 
him?  He  had  surely  shown  a  sort 
of  sympathy,  a  sort  of  desire  for 
companionship.  Had  his  possessing 
thought  of  a  woman  gone  out  to 
Benchaalal's  thought  of  a  woman? 
When  he  met  Lady  Wyverne  in  the 
gorge  that  night  he  had  come  up  to 
her,  he  had  stopped  beside  her,  he 
had  gazed  upon  her,  almost  as  if  he 
fancied  she  was  his  Ayesha. 

Pif!     The  poor  wretch  was  mad! 
198 


Useless  to  think  about  him !  Neverthe- 
less, the  Spahi's  eyes  followed  his  green 
robe  as  he  circled — circled  among  the 
tombs  in  the  glaring  afternoon  sun. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  Ben- 
chaalal  rose  up,  paid  for  his  coffee, 
and  went  out  onto  the  white  road. 

He  did  not  know  yet  that  the 
Roumi  had  gone  hunting  again  in  the 
mountains.  Achmed  had  not  told 
him.  But  now,  on  the  road,  he  met 
the  sleepy  boy  from  the  inn  and  he 
learned  the  news. 

"They  will  be  out  all  night,  Ben- 
chaalal  Hamdan  ben  Mohammed," 
said  the  boy.  "  The  Roumi  has  taken 
a  tent  to  sleep  in.  They  have  gone 
towards  the  Tell,  to  the  mountain  of 
the  dwellers  in  the  rocks." 

Benchaalal  listened  in  silence,  look-  // 
ing  very  grave.  This  news  surprised/'^, 
him,  but  he  did  not  show  any  surprise.  // l!i 

"Is  Achmed  with  the  stranger,  the  I 
Englishman?"  he  said,  at  length,     til 


"Achmed  is  with  him." 

Benchaalal  said  nothing  more,  but. 
walked  down  the  road  slowly  towards « 
>j»  the  gate  of  the  Sahara. 

So  the  Englishman  had  gone  away 
.again  and  had  left  his  woman  to  do 
as  she  willed!  Benchaalal's  aston- 
ishment deepened  as  he  realized  it. 
He  thought  about  it  carefully  as  he 
walked,  and  turned  it  over  many 
times  in  his  mind.  Crafty  as  he  was, 
he  dismissed  the  idea  that  this  de- 
parture was  a  trap.  He  could  not 
help  having  an  Arab's  point  of  view, 
and  it  would  have  been  absolutely 
impossible  for  an  Arab  who  knew  the 
truth  to  ride  off  into  the  mountains 
leaving  his  woman  alone,  even  if  he 
meant  to  come  back  and  surprise  her. 
He  must  have  stayed.  He  must  have 
acted  quickly.  His  jealousy  must 
have  fulfilled  its  lust  promptly,  deci- 
sively, furiously. 

Benchaalal  decided  in  his  mind  that 


the  Roumi  did  not  know  anything 
yet.  Despite  his  return  in  the  night 
he  did  not  know.  But  surely  Achmed 
would  tell  him! 

The  Spahi  was  now  entering  the 
gorge,  and  was  close  to  the  rock 
where  Sir  Claude  had  seen  him  when 
they  spoke  together.  Near  it,  with 
his  flute  to  his  lips,  sat  the  perpetual 
piper  playing  the  perpetual  tune. 
Benchaalal  glanced  at  him,  then  back- 
ward towards  the  desert.  Not  far 
off  he  saw  the  Marabout  coming  fur- 
tively along  the  road,  following  him. 
He  stopped.  The  Marabout  stopped, 
too,  and  looked  uneasy,  but  did  not 
retreat.  Benchaalal  began  really  to 
wonder  why  the  poor  creature  was 
intent  upon  him.  Some  strange  idea 
must  have  dawned  in  his  mind.  Usu- 

L--  ally  he  loved  solitude.  He  attached 
himself  to  no  one.  Many  had  striven 
to  persuade  him  to  enter  their  houses, 

b-  had    endeavored   to   win    some    rec- 


ognition,  some  affection  from  him, 
but  always  in  vain.  He  accepted  the 
food  they  put  into  his  hand,  but  that 
was  all.  Directly  he  had  it  he  fled, 
to  eat  it  alone  in  some  hidden  corner 
of  the  rocks  or  some  recess  of  the 
palm  gardens.  Had  he  conceived  a 
crazy  liking  for  the  Spahi? 

Benchaalal  waved  his  hand,  called 
out  to  him.  But  the  Marabout  only 
tore  at  his  fair  beard,  held  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  looked  away.  At 
last  Benchaalal  desisted  and  walked 
on  once  more.  The  Marabout  follow- 
ed him  to  the  entrance  of  the  gorge, 
there  again  stood  still  staring  af- 
ter him.  When  the  Spahi  disappeared 
he  whimpered  like  an  animal.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  be  disturbing,  even 
distressing  him.  He  hesitated  for 
some  minutes,  shifting  from  one  naked 
foot  to  the  other.  Then  at  last,  very 
furtively,  like  a  creature  seeking  its 
lair,  he  left  the  road  and  vanished 


iSand 


£3* 


among  the  rocks  beneath  the  moun- 
tain from  which,  just  then,  Sir  Claude 
was  looking  down  upon  the  desert  and 
the  villages  among  the  palms. 


XIII 


BENCHAALAL  had  already  for- 
gotten him. 

As  the  Spahi  approached  the  inn 
his  mind  had  gone  to  the  woman 
within  it,  and  the  fires  smouldering 
within  him  began  to  blaze  up  once 
more. 

Lady  Wyverne  and  he  had  parted 
strangely  by  the  river.  He  had  been 
almost  brutally  imperious  to  her,  rec- 
ognizing the  necessity  of  recalling  her 
to  herself  after  the  hysterical  terror 
which  had  taken  possession  of  her. 
And  she  had  not  resented  his  tone 
Bl'of  authority  at  the  time,  but  had 
lobeyed  him  with  a  sort  of  quick 
meekness.  She  had  washed  her  face 


in  the  river,  had  controlled  her 
and    left    him    quietly,    despite    her 
dread  of  what  might  have  happened 
in  the  inn. 

But  all  that  was  many  hours  ago. 
Benchaalal  knew  well  that  her  mood 
was  probably  changed.  The  terror 
that  had  assailed  her  would  have  van- 
ished with  the  departure  of  her  hus- 
band on  this  fresh  sporting  expedition. 
And  with  the  departure  of  terror  there 
would  be  room  in  her  mind  and  heart 
for  other  emotions. 

These  emotions  might  well  be  inim- 
ical to  him. 

At  that  thought  a  fierceness  leaped 
up  in  the  Spahi's  heart,  a  fighting 
energy  that  was  reckless.  He  for- 
got Sir  Claude  finally,  dismissed  him 
to  the  mountains  and  the  Barbary 
sheep,  to  the  hunting  that  was  surely 
the  only  thing  he  cared  for. 

Another  hunting  engrossed  the 
Spahi,  the  sport  that  was  the  passion 


205 


his  life,  the  consuming  passion,  as 
it  is  of  the  lives  of  so  many  Arabs, 
taking  precedence  of  all  things,  even 
of  the  pursuit  of  money.  There  was 
a  woman  to  be  conquered.  She  had 
nearly  been  conquered.  So  he  told 
himself.  Was  she  to  escape  now 
because  of  one  contretemps  brought 
about  by  the  lack  of  ingenuity  of  the 
fool  Achmed  ?  His  hot  blood  boiled 
at  the  thought. 

As  he  came  to  the  Judas-trees  he 
did  not  see  Lady  Wyverne  upon  the 
veranda.  The  persiennes  and  the 
window  of  her  room  were  open.  He 
fancied  he  discerned  a  shadowy  fig- 
ure beyond  them,  and  believed  her  to 
be  there,  perhaps  watching  for  his 
return.  He  wondered  whether  she 
wished  to  meet  or  to  avoid  him.  With 
difficulty  he  summoned  patience  to 
him.  He  knew  it  was  quite  useless 
to  try  to  speak  with  her  for  some 
hours,  and  he  went  to  his  room  and 


206 


shut  himself  in  till  the  bell  rang  for 
dinner.  Then  he  came  down  majes- 
tically, in  his  wide  linen  trousers,  his 
red  jacket,  his  red  gaiters,  newly  per- 
fumed, his  long  eyes  shining  beneath 
his  turban. 

When  he  entered  the  dining-room 
it  was  occupied  only  by  a  young 
French  couple,  a  painter  and  his  wife, 
who  had  arrived  that  afternoon,  and 
who  stared  at  him  with  an  interest 
which  he  did  not  return ;  although  he 
bowed  to  them  in  the  French  manner 
as  he  came  in,  and  sat  down  at  his 
little  table,  placing  himself  so  that  he 
would  be  sitting  sideways  to  Lady 
Wyverne  if  she  came. 

But  perhaps  she  would  not  come. 

He  had  hardly  formed  the  words/ 
with  his  mind  before  he  heard  a  gentle  y  //& 
rustling  upon  the  staircase,  and  she/j|; 
entered,  carrying  a  book  in  her  hand. 
Each  evening  hitherto  she  had  wornf 
a  high  white  dress  and  a  little  black  ilMMA 


hat  at  dinner.     To-night  she  wore  the  r 
same  hat  with  a  black  dress,  that  was  Js 
evidently  a  day  dress.     As  the  Spahi  j 
very  slightly  bowed  to  her,  as  to  a  ' 
stranger,  he  wondered  whether  this 
change  was  caused  by  any  motive,  or 
emotion,  discoverable  by  him.     Now 
and  then  he  glanced  at  her  while  she 
ate,    trying   to    read    her    face.     He 
thought  it  looked  colder,  harder  than 
usual,  even  a  little  older.     But  that 
might  be  a  fancy  caused  by  his  knowl- 
edge of  what  had  happened  to  her 
that  day.     She  did  not  stay  till  the 
end  of  dinner.     After  the  first  course 
of  meat  she  got  up  quietly  and  went 
out.     He  heard  her  dress  rustling  as 
she  ascended  the  stairs. 

He  lingered  a  long  while  at  his 
table,  taking  his  coffee  there  instead 
of  outside  under  the  veranda.  The 
French  painter  and  his  wife  disap- 
peared, and  he  was  left  alone.  He 

wondered  what  Lady  Wyverne  was 
208 


doing,  whether  she  had  shut  herself 
up  in  her  room,  had  gone  to  bed, 
whether  she  would  be  out  on  the 
veranda.  Surely  she  would  give  him 
a  chance  of  speaking  with  her.  If 
not,  he  meant  to  make  one  for  him- 
self. He  waited  till  the  household 
and  the  servants  were  safely  at  sup- 
per. Then  he  strolled  out  to  the 
little  court,  and  went  to  the  place 
where  he  had  stood  on  the  evening  of 
the  Wyvernes'  arrival,  by  the  fence 
under  the  Judas -trees.  He  did  not 
look  up  immediately,  but  took  out 
the  silver  box  and  carefully  rolled  a 
cigarette.  When  he  had  put  it  be- 
tween his  lips  and  lit  it,  he  glanced  at 
the  veranda. 

_          She  was  not  there,  but  he  saw  the 
:SiL   gleam  of  light  in  her  room,  the  win- 
dow of  which  was  open.     And  pres- 
ently he  saw  her  figure,  like  a  black 
-"^=.   shadow,  passing  to  and  fro  in  the  lit 
:"3  space.     What  was  she  doing  ?    Pack- 


ing,  perhaps,  or  getting  ready  to  come 
out.  He  waited  quietly.  Presently 
he  saw  her  figure  no  more.  But  the 
light  still  burned.  He  had  finished 
his  cigarette.  He  threw  the  end  of  it 
away.  Then  he  opened  his  mouth 
and  began  to  sing,  or  whine,  the 
curious  Eastern  song  with  which  he 
had  serenaded  Lady  Wyverne  before 
he  had  ever  spoken  to  her.  It  was  a 
song  about  a  Caid  who  loved  a  dan- 
cer, and  who  gave  her  many  presents, 
>gold  and  silver  bracelets,  amulets  and 
I  veils,  a  hedgehog's  foot  and  a  powder 
(of  haschish.  Whenever  she  danced  he 
as  there  to  watch  her,  and  at  last 
[he  played  upon  the  derbouka  before 
(all  the  city,  and  she  danced  to  his  tune. 
|And  when  he  had  finished  he  gave 
(her  the  derbouka  to  hang  upon  the 
>  wall  of  her  little  room  as  a  token  of  her 
[power. 

It  was  a  song  of  many  verses,  but 
I  at  last  it  was  ended. 


The  Spahi  looked  at  the  light, 
smoked  another  cigarette.  Still  she 
did  not  come. 

Then  he  sang  the  chanson  des 
vacances  of  the  children  of  the  Zibans ; 
and  then  he  sang  the  song  of  the 
Great  Mozabite  whose  love  demanded 
as  a  marriage-gift  the  head  of  All, 
the  son-in-law  of  the  Prophet.  The 
Mozabite  murdered  Ali  in  the  mosque 
with  a  sabre,  and  since  that  time  the 
Mozabites  are  hated  by  all  the  other 
Arabs.  When  he  got  to  the  last  verse, 
the  hatred  verse,  Benchaalal  raised 
his  voice,  lifting  his  head  up. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  he 
heard  the  noise  of  the  river  rushing 
through  the  gorge.  His  blood  was 
on  fire,  and  there  was  a  noise  in  his 
brain — or  so  he  fancied — that  seemed 
to  be  caused  by  the  surging  of  this 
blood  on  fire  through  his  veins  and 
arteries.  The  motionless  trees  an- 
gered him.  The  white  road,  still 


and  empty,  angered  him.  The  black 
rocks  that  frowned  above  the  inn 
infuriated  him  as  he  stared  up  at 
them.  Everything  seemed  still  to 
watch  his  impotence,  to  observe  the 
failure  of  his  desires. 

But  as  yet  he  could  do  nothing. 
He  must  wait  until  the  landlord  and 
his  wife  had  gone  to  bed.  Another 
hour  and,  if  she  had  not  come  to  him, 
he  would  go  to  her.  He  moved  away 
from  the  fence  and  went  out  onto 
the  white  road.  There  he  strolled 
softly  up  .and  down,  up  and  down. 
Above  him  the  deep-purple  sky  be- 
gan to  grow  bright  with  silver. 

Surely  she  would  come  with  the 
moon! 

In  her  bedroom  Lady  Wyverne  was 
sitting  in  a  hard  arm-chair  which  she 
pulled  away  from  the  window, 
had  been  putting  some  things  into 

trunk.  She  was  devoured  by  a 
nervous  restlessness  which  made  it 


almost  impossible  for  her  to 
still,  and  the  act  of  packing  seemed 
to  back  up  a  resolution  which  she 
thought  she  had  come  to,  the  resolu- 
tion to  see  Benchaalal  no  more.  She 
said  to  herself  that  her  husband 
might  leave  her  alone,  or  stay  with 
her,  might  sleep  or  wake,  be  careless 
or  watchful.  It  did  not  concern  her 
any  longer.  She  had  done  with  her 
whim.  For  she  had  told  herself  it 
was  a  whim.  The  terror  she  had  felt 
when  she  crouched  down,  hiding  in 
the  Spahi's  cloak,  had  struck  from 
her  mind  the  caprice  which  had  al- 
ways dominated  her.  For  she  had 
only  had  a  caprice  for  Benchaalal. 
That  she  said  to  herself  again  and 
again.  She  would  never  risk  her 
dignity  more.  It  was  over,  this  "bit 
of  fun"  in  the  desert,  and  thank  God 
it  had  led  to  no  evil  consequences. 
For  Crumpet  could  not  know  any- 
thing. His  unexpected  return  must 
213 


have  been  really  due  to  the  discom- 
fort of  the  inn  at  the  salt  mountain. 
It  must  have  been  her  own  feeling 
of  guilt  which  had  made  her  imagine 
a  strangeness  in  his  manner,  a  certain 
coldness  and  reserve  unusual  in  him. 
At  the  worst  his  suspicions  must  have 
been  quite  vague.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  Achmed  might  have  spoken,  or, 
if  he  had  not,  might  yet  speak,  tell 
what  he  knew.  But  why  should  he  ? 
She  divined  that  he  was  in  Bencha- 
alal's  pay,  though  the  Spahi  had  not 
told  her  so.  She  knew  Achmed  had 
been  to  the  villages  that  day.  No 
doubt  he  had  seen  Benchaalal.  No 
doubt  Benchaalal  had  made  things 
"  all  right."  She  put  away  her  fears, 
told  herself  that  she  had  had  a  lucky 
escape,  and  resolved  henceforward  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  any  strange- 
ness that  caught  at  her  curiosity  in 
Africa. 

She  sat  down  in  the  hard  arm-chair 


314 


and  took  up  a  book.  It  was  a  French 
novel.  As  she  looked  at  its  first 
pages  she  seemed  to  hear  the  tap  of 
high-heeled  boots  upon  the  trottoirs 
of  Paris.  Well,  she  adored  Paris! 
It  would  be  delicious  to  see  it  again, 
delicious  to  go  to  the  shops,  and— 

Benchaalal  began  to  sing  the  whin- 
ing song  of  the  Caid  who  loved  the 
dancer  and  who  played  for  her  upon 
the  derbouka. 

Lady  Wyverne's  novel  dropped 
down  into  her  lap.  She  sat  quite 
still,  listening. 

It  was  ugly ;  yes,  it  was  quite  ugly. 
That  whining  voice  would  have  no 
success  if  it  sang  in  her  world.  That 
tune  would  be  considered  "too  shock- 
ingly hideous. ' '  And  yet  it  won  upon 
her,  it  fascinated  her,  it  made  her 
regret  that  she  was  not  free,  free  as  a , 
man  is  to  follow  his  caprice,  to  in-, 
vestigate  any  mystery  that  appeals  j 
to  him,  to  set  his  feet  in  any  path . 


that    seems 

promise.  \~ 

It  must  be  glorious  to  be  perfect-  j 
r*»  ly  free !     Africa  and  its  people  had ' 
roused  in  Lady  Wyverne  a  spirit  of 
^adventure  which  often  lies  dormant 
in  those  who  are    highly  capricious, 
and  this  spirit  of  adventure  extended 
its  arms  to  the  Spahi,  as  to  a  magician 
who  could  give  it  what  it  longed  for. 

Benchaalal's  voice  died  away,  end- 
ing in  the  air,  like  a  thing  thrown  up 
towards  the  stars. 

Lady  Wyverne  took  up  her  book 
again.  But  all  the  fascination  of 
Paris  had  evaporated  from  its  pages, 
which  now  seemed  arid  and  hard  as 
the  pavements  which  echoed  with 
high  heels.  She  thought  of  naked 
brown  feet  treading  softly  in  African 
slippers. 

Again  Benchaalal  sang. 

She  knew  quite  well  why  he  was 

singing.     It  was  his  summons  to  her 
216 


to  come  out  to  him.  And  she  was 
not  going  to  obey.  She  was  soon 
going  to  shut  the  persiennes,  undress, 
put  out  the  light,  get  into  bed.  She 
looked  at  the  bed.  It  was  intended  to 
be  slept  in.  And  she  would  not  sleep. 
How  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  to 
sleep ! 

The  chanson  des  vacances  did  not 
sound  very  gay  to  her  ears.  She 
did  not  know  what  it  meant,  but 
fancied  it  a  song  of  the  sadness  of  the 
desert.  As  she  listened  to  it  she 
thought  of  the  morrow.  Certainly 
they  would  go  away  on  the  morrow. 
Once  more  she  would  be  isolated  with 
Crumpet.  Her  intercourse  with  the 
Spahi  had  opened  her  eyes  thorough- 
ly to  the  nullity  of  Crumpet — except 

|_  when  he  was  angry.     She  felt  certain 

"  that  if  he  were  really  roused  to  anger, 

her  husband  could  be  impressive,  even 

_    terrible.      But   otherwise  — !     There 
=  was  something  tragic  in  possessing  a 


husband  who  could  only  be  interest- 
ing when  he  was  furious. 

Benchaalal  was  always  interesting, 
and  she  had  never  seen  him  furious. 
Now  he  sang  the  song  of  the  Moza- 
bite  who  murdered  the  Prophet's  son- 
in-law  in  the  mosque.  The  hatred 
verse  sounded  quite  loudly  in  her 
ears.  Then  there  was  silence.  She 
listened.  She  expected  another  song. 
But  the  silence  prolonged  itself,  and 
presently  she  felt  sure  that  the  Spahi 
had  understood  that  his  summons  was 
in  vain. 

Had  he  gone  away  ? 

She  longed  to  know,  but  she  did 
not  move  from  her  chair,  and  pres- 
ently she  took  up  her  novel  again. 
But  the  restlessness  in  her  increased 
and  she  found  it  almost  impossible 
to  remain  still.  Reading  about  Paris 
had  made  her  mind  go  back  to  the 
day  when  she  had  visited  the  as- 
trologer with  her  husband.  She  re- 


called  his  written  words.  He  had 
foreseen  that  her  husband  would  be 
in  danger  of  losing  her — for  so  she 
interpreted  the  "  grande  perte."  He 
would  be  in  danger  of  losing  her,  but 
had  he  ever  really  possessed  her? 
Had  any  one?  And  she,  could  she 
ever  give  herself  utterly,  with  com- 
plete abnegation,  to  any  one?  She 
did  not  know.  But  she  knew  that 
the  Spahi  had  had  more  empire  over 
her  than  any  other  man  had  ever/ 
gained.  She  thought  of  this  empire 
as  at  an  end  deliberately.  He  had 
begun  to  dominate  her.  But  for  this !; 
fright,  which  had  awakened  her 
sharply  to  a  sense  of  the  true  value  of  jj 
events,  he  might  have  increased  his 
dominion.  Something  of  the  spirit  of  * 
the  slave  had  certainly  entered  into 
her  while  with  this  man,  who  per- 
haps had  wives  who  were  little  more 
than  slaves.  It  was  odd  that  as  she 
now  sat  thinking  of  this  subjection  of 


her  will  and  spirit  to  his  she  did  not 
feel  angry  or  even  greatly  humbled. 
Rather  she  was  conscious  of  missing 
a  pleasure  which  she  desired  to  enjoy 
once  more. 

She  sighed  and  again  looked  at  the 
high  bed.  It  was  certainly  impossi- 
ble that  she  could  sleep.  She  won- 
dered where  her  husband  was ;  prob- 
ably stretched  on  a  camp-bed  under 
the  shadow  of  his  tent,  snoring. 
Mountains  surrounded  him,  she  sup- 
posed. And  at  dawn  he  would  be  out 
with  his  gun. 

And  if  Achmed  had  told  him! 

But  Achmed 's  lips  were  closed  by 
the  Spahi's  money.  She  felt  sure  of 
that.  She  knew  that  she  ought  also 
to  feel  indignant  about  it.  Perhaps, 
in  another  land,  she  would  have 
:felt  indignant.  But  such  enterprises 
rseemed — not  unnatural,  certainly,  not 
leven  very  culpable,  here. 

By  the  river,  as  she  crouched  be- 


Tt 

«*M 


neath  Benchaalal's  cloak,  she  had 
humiliated.     But    this    sensation    of 
shame  had  mysteriously  left  her  with 
the  terror  that  had  been  its  companion. 

And  yet  she  certainly  did  not  love 
this  man.  She  did  not  love  him,  yet 
she  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  follow 
him  and  to  obey  him.  It  was  as  if 
he  held  in  his  hand  a  thin  cord  to 
which  she  was  attached,  and  when- 
ever he  pulled,  however  gently,  at 
this  cord  she  felt  that  she  must  move 
in  the  direction  he  desired. 

Even  now  he  was  pulling  at  the 
cord,  somewhere  outside  in  the  night. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  subtle  tug- 
tug. 

If  only  he  were  not  there,  and  she 
could  go  out  upon  the  veranda  and 
see  the  night  and  breathe  the  air  from 
the  desert!  She  felt  imprisoned  in 
this  little  room.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  atmosphere  within  it  was 
suffocating. 


She  had  packed  her  things  in  readi- 
ness for  the  morrow's  departure,  and 
was  wearing  a  travelling  dress,  as  the 
Spahi  had  noticed.  It  was  insuffer- 
ably tight  and  thick,  and  now,  un- 
able to  be  still,  she  got  up,  went  to 
her  trunk,  and  took  out  a  dress  of  a 
thinner  material  and  dark  red  in 
color.  She  had  not  worn  it  in  El- 
Akbara.  Quickly  she  exchanged  the 
travelling  dress  for  it.  Then  she 
looked  in  the  glass.  She  was  sur- 
prised by  the  excited  expression  on 
her  face.  Her  shining  eyes  were 
full  of  anticipation.  This  red  gown 
looked  unfinished  without  any  jewels. 
She  had  a  small  jewel-case  in  her 
dressing-bag.  She  opened  it,  took 
out  a  long  diamond  chain,  and  hung 
lit  round  her  neck. 

She  had  heard  that  the  Arabs  de- 
light in  jewels  and  in  all  sparkling 
things,  that  their  women  are  covered 
^  with  gold  coins  and  precious  amulets. 

*i  \ 


A  great  wish  came  to  her  that  the 
Spahi  might  see  her  once,  for  a  mo- 
ment, in  this  red  gown  and  with 
these  diamonds.  It  was  the  desire 
of  a  coquette.  After  to-morrow  they 
would  probably  never  meet  again. 
No  doubt  he  would  quickly  forget  all 
about  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  would 
like  to  leave  a  last  impression  that 
would  efface  his  remembrance  of  her, 
sobbing,  tear-stained,  and — obedient. 

She  sighed,  standing  still  and  hold- 
ing the  diamond  chain  lightly  with 
her  two  hands. 

Then  she  did  what  she  had  resolved 
not  to  do.  She  stepped  out  onto  the 
veranda. 

It   was    already  late;    or    so   the 
Frenchman  who  kept  the  inn  thought. 
He  and  his  wife  and  the  servants  had  / 
gone  to  bed.     Deep  silence  reigned  , 
over  this  cloistered  world  on  the  edge|/ 
of    the   world    of    freedom,    silence 
broken  only  by  the  voice  of  the  river. 


And  that  voice,  enclosed  in  this  ex- 
quisite casket  of  silence,  seemed  in-{ 
fluenced  by  it,  seemed  to  be  refined,  j 

y  ^ 

-j^  softened  to  a   tenderness   that  was1 
pathetic,  that  was  almost  yearning. 
The  moon  was  coming  up,  thrusting 
its  golden  rim  above  the  ebony  sil- 
houette of  a  great  rock. 

Lady  Wyverne  watched  it  almost 
breathlessly,  as  it  rose  with  a  mys- 
terious steadiness,  till  its  full  circle 
was  released  from  the  fierce  and 
dramatic  shadow  and  was  at  liberty 
in  the  serene  and  starry  sky. 

That  prisoner  at  least  was  free. 

She  looked  across  the  court  at  the 
dark  trees  and  at  the  road  beyond. 
No  one  was  upon  it.  She  looked 
away  to  the  dim  shapes  of  the  moun- 
tains. Her  husband  was  somewhere 
among  them.  With  the  coming  of 
the  deep  night  a  slight  uneasiness 
that  had  been  lurking  in  the  under 
part  of  her  mind  had  disappeared. 


224 


Sir  Claude  was  certainly  away  ir- 
revocably. 

And  Benchaalal? 

A  shadowy  figure  stole  down  the 
road,  going  towards  the  desert.  It 
passed  before  she  had  had  time  to  look 
at  it  closely,  and  disappeared  into 
the  moonlight.  That  it  was  an  Arab 
she  had  seen.  But  that  was  all. 
The  figure  had  seemed  to  be  running. 
It  fled  as  quickly,  as  silently  as  a 
shadow  over  a  white  sheet. 

Lady  Wyverne  was  startled  and 
held  her  breath  for  a  moment.  She 

\even  turned  half  round  to  the  lighted 
room  behind  her,  moved  by  a  sudden 
feeling  that  there  was  danger  in  this 
solitude,  that  she  had  better  go  in 
from  the   veranda,   close  the  persi- 
^S|.  ennes,  and  forget  the  strange  magic 
'without.     But    as    she    turned    she 
again  heard  the  Spahi  singing,  only 
v-^—^  just  heard  him.     The  voice  was  al- 
a  murmur,  and  she  could  not  tell 


where  it  came  from.  But  she  knew 
that  he  was  waiting,  that  he  had  seen 
her,  that  he  was  calling  her. 

Once  again,  as  so  many  times  in  her 
life,  the  hands,  the  light  but  wilfully 
obstinate  hands  of  caprice  took  hold 
of  her.  And  she  was  so  afraid  of  re- 
sisting them — knowing  that  to-night 
there  was  alive  within  her  a  some- 
thing that  was  cautious,  that  was 
even  afraid — that  she  yielded  abrupt- 
ly to  their  guidance.  Without  paus- 
ing to  catch  up  a  cloak,  she  went 
softly  out  of  her  room,  down  the 
dark  staircase,  and  out  into  the  court- 
yard. 


XIV 


BENCHAALAL,  who  was  be- 
neath the  veranda,  smiled  when 
he  saw  Lady  Wyverne  come  into  the 
court  and  look  swiftly  round  her. 
For  a  moment  he  did  not  move,  but 
watched  the  little,  slight  figure  in  its 
red  dress,  the  sparkle  of  the  thin 
chain  of  diamonds  in  the  moonlight. 
How  dainty  and  elfin  she  looked,  how 
different  from  the  terrified  woman  by 
the  river!  She  crossed  the  court, 
going  towards  the  Judas -trees.  He 
came  out  and  joined  her. 

When  she  saw  him  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice: 

"Did  you  see  that  man  go  past?" 

"Madame?" 


"Just  now,  a  man — running!  He 
went  that  way." 

She  pointed  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  gorge. 

"I  saw  no  one,  madame.  But  I 
was  not  thinking  of  men  on  the  road. 
Was  it  an  Arab?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  us  follow  him." 

"No.  I  have  come  down  to  say 
good-bye.  We  go  to-morrow.  I 
have  been  very  silly  here  and  I  am 
very  glad  to  go." 

She  stood  looking  at  him.  Again 
her  hands  had  gone  up  to  the  chain 
of  diamonds  and  held  it  lightly. 

Benchaalal  loved  jewels,  and  all 
things  that  glittered  and  shone.  His 
Oriental  imagination  was  stirred  by 
them.  They  roused  his  senses,  too, 

perfume  did,  and  music  and  bright 
^colors.  Their  fierceness  called  to 
[the  fierceness  in  him.  It  was  not 
^very  wise  of  Lady  Wyverne  to  have 


228 


put  them  on  that  night.     She  saw 
eyes  go  to  them  and  stay  with  them 
for  an  instant,  then  look  at  her  with 
a  glance  that  was  bright  like  steel. 

"  Let  us  walk  through  the  gorge  for 
the  last  time,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"After  this  morning — no!  I  had 
a  fright,  a  lesson!" 

She  spoke  in  her  most  airy,  most 
petulantly  childish  way,  trying  to 
abolish  from  his  mind  the  memory  of 
her  hysterical  collapse. 

"A  lesson  from  your  husband?" 

"Well— yes." 

"And  he  is  giving  you  another 
lesson  to-night,  madame.  Will  you 
never  learn  the  meaning  of  Barbary 
sheep?" 

As  he  finished  he  glanced  nervously 
at  the  hotel,  as  if  he  suspected  that 
they  were  being  watched,  overheard. 
In  reply  to  his  glance  she  said: 

"  Well,  just  beyond  the  trees,  then !" 


B\x\£_ 

He  held  open  the  gate  for  her.  They 
passed  out  and  went  a  few  steps  down 
the  road. 

"You  don't  understand  English- 
men," she  said. 

"Mon  Dieu!  How  can  I?"  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lifted  his 
slim  hands.  "We  get  our  blood 
warmed  each  day  by  the  sun,  ma- 
dame,  we  Arabs.  How  can  we  un- 
derstand?" 

His  eyes  were  again  on  her  jewels. 
They  spoke  to  him  in  the  moonbeams. 
Each  diamond,  when  it  glittered,  had 
a  voice. 

"You  think—?" 

She  hesitated.  She  knew  what  he 
was  thinking,  that  her  husband  cared 
nothing  for  her,  that  his  soul  was 
wrapped  up  in  the  love  of  sport.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  were  so.  But  she 
knew  that  it  was  not.  She  knew,  and 
yet  so  subtle  was  this  man's  influ- 
S-J  ence  upon  her  that  now  he  sent  to 


230 


her  his  doubt — if  it  were  doubt  and 
not  pretence  of  doubt. 

He  moved  on  a  few  steps  very 
quietly,  and  she  went  with  him  as  if 
unconsciously. 

"Madame,  I  think  that  what  wom- 
an chooses  not  to  see  she  does  not 
see,  that  what  woman  chooses  not  to 
realize  she  does  not  realize.  Am  I 
wrong?  I  am  only  an  Arab.  I  can- 
not know.  I  can  only  hazard.  I  can 
only  guess." 

Humility  from  a  man  with  eyes 
like  his,  eyes  sparkling  with  intel- 
ligence, keen  and  searching,  almost 
cunning,  came  absurdly. 

"Only  an  Arab!"  exclaimed  Lady 
Wyverne. 

She  could  not  think  of  these  dark 
men  as  her  husband  did.  To  her 
they  seemed  subtle  as  women, 
bued  with  a  strange  femininity  de- 
spite their  ruthlessness,  their  fierce- 
ness. 


'  You — doubtless  you  think  we  are 
barbarians?" 

She  looked  up  at  him.     At  thatj 
•^moment  she  knew  that  it  was  the! 
"  barbarian   in    him   which   attracted 
.  her,  or  at  least  the  barbarous  strain 
in   him   which    was    combined   with 
something  else. 

"You  are  afraid  of  us,  perhaps?" 
he  added.  "You  think  we  are  ca- 
pable of  everything?"  He  used  the 
French  expression,  capable  de  tout. 
"Is  it  not  so?" 

"I— I  think  you  might  be." 

They  were  still  walking  onward 
towards  the  gate  of  the  desert.  The 
voice  of  the  river  was  in  their  ears, 
the  silver  of  the  moonbeams  was 
about  them.  Benchaalal's  eyes  went 
continually  to  the  flashing  fires  of 
the  diamonds  that  hung  down  to  his 
companion's  waist. 

"And  is  it  not  better  so?  What 
is  a  man  if  he  is  not  capable  of  all 


when  he  feels  all,  when  he  desires  all  ? 
Would  you  have  his  manners  tame, 
his  words  slow,  his  face  calm,  when 
his  heart  is  on  fire,  when  his  nature  is 
calling,  when  his  blood  is  crying  out, 
crying  out  like  the  river  there  as  it 
rushes  towards  the  desert  ?  It  wants 
its  freedom,  and  the  man  wants  his; 
wants  the  liberty  to  be  as  he  really  is, 
to  act  no  more,  but  to  hate  and  to 
love  as  his  blood  tells  him.  The 
Englishman!  He  does  not  want  all 
this.  What  does  he  want  ?  Barbary 
sheep,  mon  Dieu!  Barbary  sheep!" 
He  laughed  low,  as  if  to  himself. 
"Well,  then,  in  the  name  of  Allah 
and  of  his  Prophet,  let  the  English- 
man have  his  Barbary  sheep,  but  let 
the  Arab  have" —  he  stopped,  then 
he  added,  slowly —  "his  desire,  the 
desire  of  his  life." 

Lady  Wyverne  felt  as  if  his  words 
were  gusts  of  heat  from  a  furnace 
'coming  to  her  fiercely.  She  knew 


mm: 


&  I 


that  she  did  not  really  care  for  the 
Spahi,  yet  whenever  she  was  with  him 
he  forced  her,  as  it  were,  into  his 
atmosphere.  Some  men  have  this 
power.  They  spread  a  magic  carpet. 
They  carry  you  away,  out  of  your 
window,  over  the  tree-tops,  over  the 
seas,  far  off  to  the  strange  lands, 
where  the  voices  are  strange  and  the 
flowers  strange,  and  you  lose  your 
identity  and  become  as  the  strange 
people  are. 

Again  Lady  Wyverne  smelt  the 
j  perfume  that  emanated  from  his  gar- 
;ments.  She  stopped. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  said. 
"I  told  you  I  would  not  walk  with 
iyou  to-night." 

"  Madame,  it  is  the  last  time.  To- 
morrow you  go,  and  I — I  go  on  my 
three  days'  journey  into  the  desert. 
You  will  never  come  there.  You  will 
take  the  train  to-morrow.  You  will 
go  back  to  England.  It  is  good-bye. ' ' 


;. 


"Yes,  it  is  good-bye." 

Again  she  felt  tempted.  A  longing 
to  taste,  just  to  taste,  the  mysterious 
African  life  assailed  her,  and  her  own 
existence  presented  itself  to  her  as 
ineffably  commonplace,  insufferably 
empty.  It  was  safe;  yes,  protected, 
but  it  was  frightfully  tame.  Again  •» 
she  was  the  child  tempted  by  the 
Celestial's  pigtail. 

"I  know;  but—" 

"You  must  at  least  say  good-bye 
to  the  desert,  madame." 

"  But — what  do  you  mean  ?  We 
are  not  going  to  England  to-morrow. 
We  are  going  on  to  Beni-Mora  to- 
morrow." 

Benchaalal  said  nothing.  He  look- 
ed at  her  in  silence,  but  in  his  eyes 
there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  ironical 
pity  and  surprise. 

"Why — why  do  you  look  at  me 
like  that?"  she  said. 

"But — madame  does  not  know?" 


235 


"Know  what?" 

"That  monsieur  turns  his  back  on 
the  desert?" 

"I  know  nothing.  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Then  I  had  better  be  silent. 
Madame  will  know  to-morrow." 

"Tell  me  now.     Tell  me  at  once." 

"To-day — did  you  not  notice  any- 
thing strange  in  monsieur's  manner 
to-day?"  said  Benchaalal,  drawing  a 
bow  at  a  venture,  very  craftily. 

"Yes,  I— what  did  it  mean?" 

"That  monsieur  is  tired  of  Africa, 
that  to-morrow  he  turns  his  back  to 
the  desert.  In  Beni-Mora  there  are 
no  Barbary  sheep.  Therefore,  mon- 
sieur will  not  go  to  Beni-Mora." 

"How  do  you  know  this?" 

"  But  all  at  the  hotel  knows  it,  the 
patron,  the  Arabs,  every  one.  Per- 
jhaps  not  madame!  The  wise  man 
facts  quickly,  without  speech,  when 

he    acts    against    his    wife's    desire. 
236 


!l 


Madame  will  know.     To-morrow 
will  know,  when  she  steps  into  the 
train  that  goes  to  Tunis!" 

"Then — then  I  shall  never  see  the 
real  desert." 

A  bitter  sense  of  disappointment, 
almost  of  outrage,  swept  over  Lady 
Wyverne.  All  the  wilfulness,  which 
had  ruled  so  long,  seemed  to  start  up, 
like  a  wild  creature  at  the  touch  of 
a  whip.  She  believed  what  Ben- 
chaalal  said.  He  spoke  with  an  air 
of  almost  surprised  sincerity  that  con- 
vinced her  at  once  that  he  was  speak- 
ing the  truth.  She  grew  hot  with 
anger.  This  was  why  her  husband's 
manner  had  been  strange,  furtive 
with  her  in  the  morning  upon  the 
veranda.  This  was  why  he  had 
tried  to  avoid  her  kiss.  He  had  had 
his  sport,  his  pleasure,  and  now  he 
was  going  to  take  her  away.  She 
was  to  yield  to  his  convenience,  to 
forego  her  desire. 

337 


Patches  of  red  came  out  on  her 
delicate  cheeks  and  her  eyes  shone. 
Without  saying  another  word  she 
walked  on  again. 

And  as  she  walked  she  thought  that 
her  desire  of  the  desert  had  increased. 
Now  that  she  was  not  to  know  the 
desert,  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was 
the  one  thing  which  she  longed  to 
know. 

Benchaalal  kept  close  beside  her  as 
the  gorge  narrowed.  He  read  her 
feelings,  marked  his  success.  But  he 
was  too  clever  to  dwell  upon  Sir 
Claude.  Instead  he  turned  to  an- 
other subject.  He  spoke  of  the  des- 
ert, of  the  strange  life  there,  of  the 
freedom,  the  adventure,  the  passion. 
And  he  spoke  sincerely,  for  he  loved 
his  home,  although,  like  many  Arabs, 
he  loved  also  the  vices  of  cities  now 
that  he  had  begun  to  know  them. 
He  strove  to  kindle  a  blaze  in  the 

imagination  of  the  woman  beside  him, 
338 


a  blaze  that  would  rival  the  blaze 
of  those  diamonds  which  hung  at  her 
neck,  moving  as  she  moved,  sparkling 
in  the  moonlight.  They  had  given 
a  mysterious  impetus  to  his  desire 
which  no  one  not  an  Oriental  could 
have  comprehended.  He  connected 
them  with  their  wearer,  their  brill- 
iance with  the  brilliance  of  her  angry 
eyes,  their  fairness  with  the  fairness 
of  her  face,  their  glitter  with  the 
glitter  of  her  hair.  In  his  mind  he 
compared  her  to  a  jewel,  to  a  chain  of 
jewels.  And  as  he  longed  for  them 
he  longed  for  her.  He  desired  to  take 
them  into  his  hands  and  to  take  her 
into  his  heart.  And  he  spoke  like  one 
of  the  Goblin  men  of  Goblin  market. 
And  she  listened  as  to  the  voice  of  a 
Goblin  man. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  at  last.  "If; 
you  were  not  going  to-morrow!  Go-/ 
ing  back  to  England!" 

"Perhaps  I  shall  not  go,"  she  said. 


There  was  almost  a  fierce  ring  in! 
her  clear  voice  that  was  no  longer 
*?.'  petulant. 

"  But  if  your  husband  is  going?" 

"Perhaps  I  shall  not  go,"  she  re- 
peated. "We  women  are  not  like 
women  who  are  veiled.  Western  wom- 
en are  not  slaves." 

"But  he  will  do  what  he  chooses. 
I  saw  it  in  his  eyes  when  I  spoke  with 
him  by  the  river." 

"He  is  not  my  master." 

"I  should  be  your  slave." 

They  were  near  the  mouth  of  the 
gorge  now,  and  were  walking  at  the 
base  of  that  mountain  on, whose  sum- 
mit was  the  rock  shaped  like  a  rest- 
ing camel. 

"You  must  not  speak  to  me  like 
that,"  Lady  Wyverne  said. 

"I  should  be  your  slave,"  he  re- 
peated, as  if  he  had  not  heard  her. 

"But,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint- 
hearted attempt  to  restore  a  light 


240 


tone  to  their  conversation — "but  in 
this  land  it  is  the  women  who  are 
like  slaves." 

"The  dark-skinned  women!  But 
you — you  are  fair.  You  are  like  a 
diamond,  one  of  those  diamonds  you 
wear." 

His  hand  went  out  towards  the 
swinging  chain  instinctively,  but  he 
drew  it  back,  making  a  strong  effort 
to  control  himself. 

"The  dark  men  worship  the  fair 
women.  You  are  like  the  silver 
moon.  You  are  like  the  sun  when  it 
shines  upon  the  great  prayer  after  the 
fast  of  Ram-a-dan.  When  I  see  you 
I  am  looking  at  the  East.  Do  you 
not  know  it?" 

All  the  time  he  spoke  he  was 
watching  her  craftily.  And  yet  he 
was  fiercely  moved,  and  by  a  double 
desire  of  possession.  Two  hearts  seem- 
ed beating  in  his  breast,  the  heart  of  a 
'  robber  and  the  heart  of  a  lover.  The 


•  *  'i 

m 


two  controlling  passions  of  the  Arab 
were  simultaneously  alive  within  him. 
At  that  moment  he  was  capable  of 
falling  at  Lady  Wyverne's  feet  and 
giving  up  his  life  to  her,  if  she  would 
yield  to  him.  But  he  was  also  capa- 
ble of  murdering  her  for  the  chain  of 
jewels  at  her  neck  if  she  resisted 
him.  And  this  is  only  to  say  that  he 
was  Arab. 

Yet  though  Benchaalal  was  on  fire 
at  this  moment  and  knew  not  what 
was  going  to  do,  what  deed  of 
,passion  or  of  terror,  he  never  ceased 
to  be  watchful  of  his  companion.  His 
cunning  waited  for  the  moment  when 
[her  face  should  give  him  a  sign  that 
might  dare  all. 

She  had  seen  his  dusky  hand  go 

t  towards  the  diamonds,  and  for 
instant  had  felt  a  thrill  of  some- 
"thing  that  was  like  repugnance  or 
ven  fear.  But  it  vanished.  For 

e  told  herself  that  the  gesture  was 


an  absolutely  natural  one,  according 
with  the  comparison  he  made.  Never- 
theless, there  had  been  something  in 
the  look  of  his  hand,  as  it  darted  out 
from  the  folds  of  his  garments,  which 
had  startled  her  and  left  her  more 
highly  strung  than  she  had  been  be- 
fore. He  knew  that,  and  his  following 
speech  had  been  deliberately  languid, 
like  the  speech  of  a  poet  of  the  tents. 

"Do  you  not  know  it?"  he  repeat- 
ed, going  a  little  closer  to  her,  so  that/ 
his  swinging  cloak  touched  her  gently 
as  he  walked. 

"I  turn  towards  Mecca  when  I 
pray  at  dawn,  but  I  turn  to  you  when 
I  pray  at  night.  And  you,  will  you 
hear  my  prayer  ?" 

"Hush!"  she  said. 

She  spoke  quietly,  scarcely  with 
reprobation.  As  she  was  going  to 
see  a  last  vision  of  the  desert,  there 
was  no  reason,  surely,  why  she  should 
not  listen  for  the  last  time  to  the 


voice  of  the  desert.  And  in  this 
desert  man  she  personified  the  des- 
ert for  the  moment.  To-morrow  the 
vision  would  have  faded  from  her 
eyes  and  the  voice  would  have  died 
away  forever  from  her  ears.  Once 
more  she  would  have  resumed  her 
life  with  Crumpet.  Her  sense  of  re- 
sentment against  her  husband,  too, 
restrained  her  resentment  from  fall- 
ing on  another. 

In  answer  to  her  pretence  of  re- 
buke he  was  suddenly  silent.  They 
walked  on  very  slowly.  She  heard 
the  tap  of  her  high-heeled  shoes  on 
the  hard  road,  and  thought  of  the  tap 
of  the  shoes  on  the  trottoirs  of  Paris. 
Then  she  thought  of  the  look  of  the 
Spahi's  naked  feet,  that  had  seemed 
to  clasp  the  river  stones  like  hands, 
-and  of  how  she  had  dreamed  of  those 
tfeet  padding  softly  over  the  desert 
isands,  with  a  woman's  feet  beside 
them. 

244 


Well,  now  a  woman's  feet  were 
treading  beside  them,  and  towards 
the  desert. 

For  a  moment  she  gave  herself  up 
to  an  imagination.  She  conceived 
the  impossible  accomplished.  Sup- 
pose she  had  allowed  her  caprice  to 
develop;  suppose  she  were  a 
strong,  unbalanced,  passionate, 
less  woman,  instead  of  merely 
whimsical,  pleasure-loving,  wilful  lit- 
tle creature!  Suppose  she  had  been 
carried  away,  had  gone  mad  over  the 
Spahi !  Suppose  that  they  were  really 
afoot  for  the  great  journey,  that  the 
lim  past  was  left  behind  forever,  hidden 
Bffll  like  a  dropped  burden  among  the 
HIP!  f  rocks  of  the  gorge,  that  the  desert  was 
opening  out  before  them  and  that  she 
had  cast  in  her  lot  with  the  dark 
people  of  the  waste  places  of  the  earth ! 
How  extraordinary  that  would  be! 
For  the  moment  her  feather-headed 
caprice  delighted  in  this  imagination, 


245 


played  with  it  like  a  child  with  a 
colored  ball  that  floats  upward  on 
the  wind.  She  forced  herself  to  live 
in  this  dream.  Yes,  it  was  so.  Her 
old  life  was  gone  forever.  She  had 
done  the  strangest  thing  that  ever 
woman  had  done.  How  they  would 
talk  of  her  in  her  old  haunts,  in  the 
boudoirs  of  Paris  and  of  London,  on 
the  race-courses  of  Newmarket  and 
of  Ascot,  on  the  moors  of  Scotland 
under  the  misty  mountains!  What 
would  they  say  of  her?  Did  it  mat- 
ter? They  were  nothing  to  her  any 
more,  these  friends  and  acquaintances 
of  the  past.  Their  talk  would  never 
again  be  her  talk,  nor  their  fads  and 
their  crazes  hers.  From  the  tyran- 
nies of  fashion  she  was  forever  freed, 
from  the  changing  modes  of  the  hour 
and  of  life.  To  the  immutable  East 
she  was  setting  her  face,  to  the  land 
that  does  not  change! 

For  the  moment  she  was  so  much 
246 


under  the  influence  of  her  own  de- 
liberate imagination  that  she  almost 
was  the  woman  she  thought  of,  and 
he,  the  Spahi,  almost  became  to  her 
that  woman's  master.  Or  slave? 
Which  was  it?  Which  would  it  be? 

Which  would  it  be? 

As  she  asked  herself  this  question 
she  glanced  at  Benchaalal  with  an 
expression  in  her  eyes  which  had 
never  been  in  them  before  when  they 
had  looked  at  him,  an  expression  of 
deep  inquiry,  so  feminine  and  yet  so 
searching  that  it  startled  him,  and 
added  to  her  personality  a  charm 
that  hitherto  it  had  lacked,  the  fas- 
cination of  mystery.  They  were 
close  to  the  opening  in  the  gorge. 
The  desert  lay  before  them.  Al-/ 
ready  in  the  distance  they  could  see  // 
it.  Their  feet  were  almost  touching/  y, 
the  fringes  of  its  vastness,  and  its 
magnetic  wind  came  sighing  to  their 
cheeks. 


To  Benchaalal  at  this  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  events  rose  to  a  climax 

*  almost  dramatically  arranged  by  fate. 

,'_  The  three  visions — of  the  diamonds, 
of  his  companion's  searching  eyes, 

v-and  of  the  moon-washed  desert  to 
which  he  belonged — gave  themselves 
to  his  gaze  almost  as  one.  They 
were  blended  together,  fused  into  a 
whole.  And  that  whole  —  he  must 
have  it.  It  must  be  his,  now.  He 
could  wait  for  it  no  longer.  The 
jewels,  the  woman,  and  the  desert — 
they  must  belong  to  him,  now. 

His  dark  hand  shot  out  again  and 
closed  on  Lady  Wyverne's  hand. 
He  did  not  speak,  but  the  grasp 
of  his  hand  frightened  her  It  told 
her  unmistakably  that  she  wras  in 
danger.  It  was  arbitrary.  It  was 
the  hand  of  a  robber  as  well  as  of  a 
lover,  a  hand  that  could  tear  to  pieces 
as  easily,  and  perhaps  almost  as 
happily,  as  it  could  caress.  And  his 
248 


eyes  now,  as  they  met  hers,  answered 
the  question  hers  had  asked  them, 
answered  it  with  a  fierce  frankness 
that  left  no  room  for  doubt.  The 
barbarian  forced  his  way  up  into  the 
light,  splitting  through  the  thin  crust 
of  civilized  culture  that  had  covered 
him,  as  an  iron  bar  splits  through  a 
pane  of  glass. 

The  desert  came  upon  Lady  Wy- 
verne  and  the  desert  man  came  upon 
her,  showing  himself  exactly  as  he 
was. 

When  his  hand  seized  her  hand  she 
instinctively  recoiled.  Instantly  his 
other  hand  shot  out,  and  seized,  not 
her  other  hand,  but  the  diamond 
chain  at  her  neck. 

The  whole  man  was  nakedly  re- 
1%  vealed  in  those  two  quickly  following 
actions. 

As  the  Spahi's  thin  fingers  closed 

s._  upon  the  diamonds  Lady  Wyverne 

^  knew   the   depth   of   her   folly,    and 


there  came  to  her  a  sickening  horror 
in  which  the  desert  was  condemned 
with  the  man.  Tradition  rushed 
back  to  the  place  in  her  nature  from 
which  her  caprice  had  ousted  it.  Her 
heart  clamored  for  the  blessed  pro- 
tection of  the  commonplace  which  she 
had  been  rejecting,  and  the  peculiar 
disgust  which  so  many  white-skinned 
people  feel  towards  the  dark  races  of 
the  earth  suddenly  rose  up  in  her, 
rose  to  the  level  of  her  husband's. 

All  this  vehement  recoil  of  her 
[nature  the  Spahi  felt  as  it  was  born. 
j  His  right  hand  abandoned  her  hand 
land  joined  its  greedy  brother  on  her 
!  jewels.  The  lover  in  him,  rejected, 
[became  the  parent  of  the  passionate 
:  robber. 

His  hands  tore  at  the  diamonds. 

Hidden  among  the  rocks  to  the 
j  left  of  the  road,  a  watching  man  had, 
|  for  some  seconds,  which  seemed  to 


him  long  nights  of  impenetrable 
blackness,  held  a  gun  to  his  shoulder 
with  a  steady  hand,  his  finger  upon 
the  trigger.  One  reason  alone  had 
prevented  him  from  firing,  a  strange 
but  tremendous  indecision  in  his 
heart. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  wished 
to  shoot  the  woman  or  the  man  upon 
the  road. 

While  he  waited,  still  as  the  rocks 
which  concealed  him,  the  woman 
started  back  from  the  Spahi,  and  the 
Spahi's  hand  left  her  hand  and  darted 
at  her  jewels. 

Then  the  man  among  the  rocks 
knew.  He  moved  slightly  and  he 
levelled  his  gun  at  the  Spahi. 

But  before  he  could  fire  there  came 
upon  the  Spahi  a  rushing  figure,  whose 
bright-green  robe  showed  clearly  in 
the  moonbeams;  and  the  hands  that 
clutched  the  diamonds  broke  the 
chain  that  united  them,  as  the  Spahi 


sank  down   upon   the   road   with   a 
knife  between  his  shoulders. 
"Allah!     Allah!     Allah!" 
The  long,  fierce  cry  went  up  in  the 
night. 

Sir  Claude  leaped  into  the  road. 
As  his  arms  went  round  his  wife  the 
cry  rose  up  again. 

"Allah!  Allah!  Allah!" 
Then  it  died  away  in  a  whimper 
that  was  like  an  animal's,  as  the  mad 
Marabout  dropped  down  to  his  knees 
beside  the  Spahi's  body,  and  began 
carefully  to  pick  up,  one  by  one,  the 
jewels  that  wrere  scattered  over  it, 
gleaming  in  the  moonbeams  like  crys- 
tals of  the  desert. 

When  day  dawned  the  Arab  boy 
strolled  lazily  along  the  bank  of  the 
river  till  he  reached  his  nook  in  the 
ocks.     There    he    squatted    down, 
bided   his   burnous   round   his   slim 
body,  drew  forth  from  his  breast  his 


little  flute  of  reed,  and,  putting  his 
dusky  fingers  to  the  holes,  sent  forth 
airily  to  the  sun  the  melody  that  was 
like  caprice  personified  in  music. 


THE    END 


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